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OETICAL VV ORKS 



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OF 



HOMAS CAMPBELL. 



NOV 12 1890 
DEHQflHtlwrffllOBo 




BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Lath Ticknor & Fields, .-^^•D Fii.lus, 0;;good, & Co. 
1871. 






A* 



By Tra,Tisfi»r 
JliN 5 1907 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

This edition of Campbell's Poems is printed 
from the London edition of 1851. The Bio- 
graphical Sketch of the Poet, and the notes which 
stand at the end of several of the pieces, relating 
to the circumstances of their composition and the 
success they met with, are by the Rev. W. A. Ilill, 
who is connected with Campbell's family by mar- 
riage with his niece. It is proper to remark that 
the Memoir has been slightly, and the Notes con- 
siderably abridged, and that some of the notes of 
the London edition have been omitted. 

It has not been thought advisable to reprint in 
this volume pieces which the Author deliberately 
reject* d. A single exception has been made in 
the case of the " Dirge of AVallaee," which is 
given in an Appendix for the sake of one ener- 
getic stanza. C. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

BiOGKAPHicAL Sketch vii 

Pleasures of Hope. — Part 1 1 

Part II 27 

TnEonitic : a Domestic Tale 49 

Martial ElegA'. — From the Greek of Tyrtceus 74 

Song of Uy brias the Cretan 76 

Fragincnt. — From the Greek of Alcman 76 

Specimens of Translations from ^ledea 77 

Speech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy 78 

O'Connor's Child ; or, " The Flower of Love lies Bleeding " . 83 

Lochiel's Warning 94 

Ye Mariners of England : a Naval Ode 08 

Battle of the Baltic 101 

Hohenlinden 105 

Glenara 107 

Exile of Erin 110 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 113 

Ode to the Memory of Burns 116 

Lines written on visiting a Scene in Argyleshire 120 

The Soldier's Dream 1-3 

To the Rainbow 125 

The Last Man 128 

A Dream 1^1 

Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq 135 

GEiMKriH': OK- W Yo.MiNO. — Part 1 139 

I'art II 153 

Part 111 iti3 

Lines written at the request of the llighlaml Society ia 
London, when met to commemorate the 21st of March, 
the Day of Victory in Egypt 181 



IV CONTENTS. 

PagB 
Stanzas to tne ^Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest 
killed in resisting the Regency and the Duke of Augou- 

leme 183 

Song of the Greeks 185 

Ode to Winter 188 

Lines spoken by ^Irs. Bartley at Drury-Lane Th"atrc, on 
the first opening of the House after the Death of the 

Tnncess Charlotte, 1817 190 

liiues on the Gi'ave of a Suicide 193 

RtuUura 194 

The Turkish Lady. 202 

The Braye Roland 204 

The Spectre Boat: a Ballad 206 

The Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-Day 208 

Song— "Oh, how hard" 209 

Adelgitha 210 

Lines on receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from 

K. M — , before her JMarriage 211 

Gilderoy 213 

Stanzas on the threatened Livasion, 1803 215 

The Kitter Bann 217 

Song—" Men of England " 225 

Song—" Drink ye to her " 226 

The Harper 237 

The Wounded Hussar 228 

Love and Madness : an Elegy .230 

Hallowed Ground 234 

Song—" Withdraw not yet " 238 

Caroline.— Part 1 239 

Part H. To the Evening Star 241 

Thn Beech Tree's Petition .... 243 

Field Fbwers 244 

Song — " To the Evening Star " 246 

Stanzas to Painting 247 

The Maid's Remonstrance 250 

Absence, 251 

Lines inscribed on the Monument erected by the Widow 
of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K.C.B., to the memory of 
her Husband 252 



CONTENTS. V 

Fnge 

Stanzas on the Battle of Navnrino 253 

Lines on revisiting a Scottish River 255 

The '' Name Unknown ; " in imitation of Kh^pstock 2')7 

Farewell to Love 259 

Lines on the Camp Uill, near Hastings 260 

Lines on Tola ml 262 

A Thought suggested by the Kew Year 269 

Song — " How delicious is the winning" 270 

]\Iargaret and Dora 271 

The Power of Russia 272 

Lines on leaving a Scene in Bavaria 277 

The Death-Boat of Heligoland 283 

Song — " When Love cnme first to Earth " 2?6 

Song—" Earl ]\Larch looked on his Dying Child " 287 

Song — ^" When Napoleon was flying " 288 

Lines to Julia ISl , sent with a copy of the Author's 

Poems 289 

Drinking Song of Munich 290 

Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales . 291 

Lines on revisiting Cathcart 296 

The Cherubs. — Suggested by an Apologue in the Works 

of Franklin 297 

Senex's Soliloquy on his youthful Idol 301 

To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Par 

li;imcnt, Auirust 7, 1832, respecting the Foreign Policy 

of Great Britain 302 

Ode to the Gemians 301 

Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by 

the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney. . . .306 

Lines on the View from St. Leonard's 308 

The Dead Eagle.— Written at Gran 314 

Song — " To Love in my Heart " 318 

Lines Avritten in a blank leaf of La Pcrouse's Voyages. . .320 

The Pilgrim of Glencoe 323 

Napoleon and the British Sailor 349 

Benlomond 3i!2 

The Child and Hind 353 

The Jilted Nymph 360 

On getting home the Portrait of a Female Child 363 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Parrot 364 

Song of the Colonists departing for New Zealand 305 

Moonlight 367 

Song on our Qncen 369 

Cora Liun, or tlie Falls of the Clyde 370 

Chaucer and Windsor 372 

Lines suggested by the Statue of Arnold von Winkehied. .373 

To the United States of North America 374 

Lines on my new Child-sweetheart 375 

The Launch of a First-rate 377 

To a Young Lady 378 

Epistle, from Algiers, to Horace Smith 379 

Fragment of an Oratorio 382 

To my Niece, Mary Campbell . . 385 

Ari'KJJDix. The Dirge of Wallace 387 

Kotes .389 






BlOGRAPniCAL SKETCH 



OF 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

* " I SIT down to take a retrospect of my life. 
Why should the task make me sad ? Have 1 not 
many blessings and many friends ? Yes ! thanks 
to God, very many. But life, when we look 
back upon it, has also many painful recollections ; 
and pain, when viewed either as past or to come, 
makes a deeper impression on tiie imagination 
than either the past pleasures or comforts of life 
that can be recalled. In the remembrance of our 
lives we are like unfair tradesmen, who omit a 
part of their debts in their balance of accounts. 
We resign ourselves to forget — myriads of the 
easy, tranquil, or even pleasing though anxious 
hours of our being; but ibr an hour of pain we 
make a large charge in our estimate of compared 
misery and happiness. I do not think that it is 
a fair argument to urge against individual-com- 
parative ha})piness, that because most of us, if the 
question were put — Would you wish to spend 
your life over again ? — would probably say — JSo, 

* Retrospect of life, Avritten by i'imself. 



nil BIOGEArUICAL SKETCH 

I thank joii ; I have had enough of it. This is 
just as if you were to ask me, after I had finished 
a narrative l)ook tliat had much amused me — 
How should you hke to rrad it over a,a;ain ? Why, 
possibly, unless the book were Robinson Crusoe, 
I should say — ISo, I cannot now read the book 
with the same curiosity as before. Even so it is 
with life. Its evils are sweetened by hope, novel- 
ty, and curiosity. How can Ave imagine ourselves 
animated by these feelings a second time, if we 
were to enter on a second existence ? But why, 
it may be asked, if the retrospect of life be in the 
least sad, should I set down to the task of noting 
its memoranda? Why, unimportant as I am, I 
know that some account of me will be wiitten. 
Dr. Beattie has even volunteered to be my bio- 
grapher. He is likely to survive me by fifteen 
years, and a better biographer I could not find, 
except that he would be too laudatory. I know 
not, however, what business Dr. Beattie may have 
on his hands at the time when it may please God 
to call me away, and to leave my friend to grope 
his way through letters collected fi-om my corres- 
pondents, or through confused memoranchi of my 
own writing, would be but a sorry bequest to my 
best of friends. 

" I shall leave to yon, therefore, my dear niece,* 
a series of the recollections of my lil'e, as distinctly 
connected as I can make them, and he and you, 
after my death, may make what use of them you 
think most proper. 

" I was born, as our family Bible states (foj 
this is none of my own recollection), in Gl'»-sgovv 
on the 27tii of July, 1777, at 7 o'clock jj f'j. 

* Maiy Campbell, now Mrs. W. Alfred Hill 



OF THOMAS CAMTD: I.L. IX 

morning. Tlie house which my Aiilicr and hi.s 
family inhabited then, and for fourteen years 
after ward.^, was in the High Street of Glai^gOAV, 
a little above, and on the opj)0-ite side of the 
Uavannah Street, but was ])ulled down to open 
a new street crossing the Higli Street between 
the new grammar-school and the road east of the 
Gallowgate, so that the house and room in which 
I was born is not now an earthly locality, but a 
place in the empty air, emblematic, perhaps, of 
iny future memory. 

" I have uncommonly early recollections of life ; 
1 remember, that is to say, I seem to remember, 
many circumstances whicii I was told had occuiTcd 
when I could not have been quite three years old. 

*' In very early years I was boarded, during 
the summer, in the country near Glasgow, at 
Pollock Shaws, in the humble house of a stocking- 
weaver, John Stewart, whose wife Janet M'as as 
kind to me as my own molher could be. 

" During the winter, in those inl'antine years, 
I returned to my father's house, and my youngest 
sister taught me reading. My reading, of course, 
was principally in the Bible, and 1 contracted a 
liking for tlie Old Testament which has never left 
me. The recollection of this period makes an 
exception to the general retrospect of my life, 
making me somewhat sad. 1 was then the hap- 
piest of young human animals, at least, during the 
months which I spent under the roof of John and 
Janet Stewart. It is true I slept on a bed of 
chatf, and my fare, as may be supposed, was not 
sum[)tuous, but life was young witiiin me. Pol- 
lock Shaws was at that time rural and delightl'ul. 
The stocking-weaver's house was on a Hat piece 
of ground, half circularly inclosed by a small 



X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

running stream, called hy the Scotch, a * burn. 
On one side above it were ascending fields which 
terminated in trees along the high road to Glas- 
gow. I remember no 'picture by Claude that 
ever threw me into such dreams of delight as this 
landscape. I remember leaping over the tallest 
yellow weeds with ecstasy. I remember seeing 
beautiful weed-flowers on the opposite side of the 
burn which I could not approach to pull, and 
wishing in my very soul to get at them, still I 
could not cross the burn. There were trouts, too, 
in the stream, and what a glorious event was the 
catching a trout. I was happy, however. Once 
only in my life perfectly happy. 

"At eight years old I went to the grammar- 
school of Glasgow, where, among seventy other 
boys, I was the pupil of David Alison, lie was 
a severe disciplinarian of the old school, and might 
be compared to Gil Bias's master, ' who was the 
most expert Jiogger in all OviedoJ But I was 
one of his pet scholars, and he told my father that 
he often spared me, when he ought to have whipt 
me, because I looked so innocent. He was a 
noble-looking man. At the periodical examina- 
tions by the magistrates, he looked a prince in 
comparison even with the Provost with his golden 
chain. And he 

" ' Was kind, or if severe in anglit, 

Tlie love he bore to leaniiug was in fault.' 

" »So that he was popular even among hi? whip- 
pees. I Avas so early devoted to poetry, that at 
ten years old, when our master interpreted to us 
the first Eclogue of Virgil, I was literally thrilled 
by its beauty. Already we had read bits of Ovid, 
but he never affected me half so much as the 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XI 

apostrophe of Titjrus to liis cottage, from which 
he had been driven : — 

** * En unquam patrios iongo post tempore fines 
Pauperis et tuguri congestum cespite culmen 
Post aliquot, mea regna videiis, inirabor aristas.' 

** David Alison was, I believe, a very good 
teacher of Latin, and he attended more to prosody 
than his predecessors are said to have done. At 
the same time the whole mode of tuition was 
barbarous and inefficient. Some seventy boys in 
each of the four classes were confined in their 
class rooms, for two hours at a stretch, three times 
in a day. Out of the seventy, I believe that 
scarcely seven acquired, during four years, more 
Latin than a boy of ordinary capacity miglit have 
been taught, by proper management, in one year. 
There was a genei^al and pretty noisy murmur in 
the room. When the seven who oould say their 
lessons had been heard, they were, instead of 
being set at liberty, confined till the sixty-three 
dunces were examined in divisions, and whipped 
in a geometrical scale of descent, and loud were 
the screeches of those who suffered from the 
leathern thong. I understand that there is now 
a fifth class, and a rector in the grammar-school 
of Glasgow ; — that it has even a professor of elocu- 
tion attached to it, and that great improvement 
has taken place. 

" In my thirteenth year, 1 went to the Univer- 
sity of Glasgow, and put on the red gown. The 
joy of the occasion made me unable to eat my 
breakfast. I am told tiiat race-horses, on the 
morning of the day when they know they are to 
be brought to the race, are so agitated that they 
refuse their oats. Whether it was presentiment, 



Xll BIOGKAnilCAL SKETCH 

or the mere castle-building of my vanity, I had 
even then a day-dream that I should be one day 
Lord Rector of the University. In my own life- 
time. Lord Jeffrey and myself have been the only 
two Rectors who were educated at Glasgow. 

" The Professor of Latin in Glasgow Univer- 
sity at that time was William Richardson, som.e- 
what known among our little known poets, and 
author of a tragedy called ' The Indians.' lie 
was Ji gentlemanlike man, though rather mincing 
and fribbling in his gait and manner, and a tho- 
rough-paced Tory slave, in what he called his 
principles, — a mere creature of the Duke of Mon- 
trose. Yet he was a very fair teacher, and I ought 
to remember him with gratitude, ibr he encourag- 
ed and gave me the distinction of a prize for my 
earliest attemj)ts in poetical translation." 

Here the MS., contained in Campbell's hand- 
writing, which is believed to have been writen in 
1842, breaks off, and recommences at another part 
of his biography. 

The editor requests the reader, in limine, to 
glance for a moment at the history of the Poet's 
iiimily, which may be traced for many generations. 

From documentary evidence and records of 
the presbytery of Inverary, it appears that this 
" branch of the Campbell's " were long settled 
in that part of the Argyle frontier, which lies 
between Lochawe and Loclifyne, bordered by the 
ducal territory of Inverary. 

Archibald, Lord and Knight of Lochawe, was 
grandson of Sir Neil, chief of the clan, and a 
contemporary of King Robert Bruce. 

This Archibald died a. d. 13 GO, leaving issue 
three sons, Tavis, ancestor of Dunardrie, and Iver, 
from whom sprang the Camj)helh of Kirnan^ the 



OF THOMAS CAMrBELL. XIU 

distinciive name of Iver's descendants, "vvho, during 
the lapse of manj generations, became identified 
with the place as lairds and heritors of Kirnan ; 
a race who could show their descent as far back 
as Gilespic-le-Camile, first Norman lord of Loch- 
awe. The poet's grandfather, Archibald Car.:p- 
bell, was the last of tiie name who resided on the 
family estate. AVhen past his prime, he contiact- 
ed marriage with Margaret Stuart, daughter of 
Stuart of Ascog, in the island of Bute, then the 
widow of John M*Arthur of Milton. 

From this union sprung three sons, Robert, 
Archibald, and Alexander. On the decease of 
the father, who died in the Canongate of Edin- 
burgh, Robert Campbell, the eldest son, appears to 
have taken possession of the family estate at Kir- 
nan ; but, after a time, through the exercise of 
lavish Highland hospitality, a love of military dis- 
play, and tiie eo:penses incidental to a large esta- 
blishment, liabilities were incurred. The estate 
was sold, and became annexed to the estate of 
Milton, the proprietor of which was John M'Ar- 
thur, his half-brother, son of Mrs. Campbell by 
lier first marriage. Robert died in London, after 
a chequered career, as a political writer, under 
the Walpole administration. Archibald, the next 
brother, was a D.D. of Edinburgh, and after ofll- 
ciating as a Presbyterian minister in Jamaica for 
some years, finally settled abroad in the State of 
Virginia, in America, where he and his family be- 
came peojjle of high repute and importance ; and 
in after time his grandson, Frederick Campbell, 
through failure of intermediate heirs, succeeded, 
under an entail executed in 17 Go, to the estates 
of Whitebarony, in Peebleshire, Ascog in Bute, 
and Kilfinnan and Kirnan in Argyleshire. The 



XIV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

youngest brother, Alexander Campbell (father of 
the poet), was born in 1710, and was educated 
with a view to commerce. In the early part of his 
life he resided at Falmouth, in Virginia, where, 
after making a fair start, he entered into copart- 
nership with Daniel Campbell, and in his company 
returned to Scotland, and commenced business in 
the Virginian trade, at Glasgow, under the firm of 
"Alexander and Daniel CampbelL" For nearly 
forty years success crowned the exertions of the 
firm ; it rapidly advanced in commercial import- 
ance, and bid fair to distance the first houses in 
the trade. 

The differences which had long subsisted be- 
tween Great Britain, the mother country, and 
her American colonies, and which in the year 
1775 ripened into open war, and at last resulted 
in the declaration of independence on the part of 
the States, had, for some time before the actual 
outbreak, operated strongly against the mercantile 
interest; but the baneful effect of the unnatural 
contest was most severely felt in the northern ports 
particularly in Glasgow. There, firms of vast re- 
sources and credit, one by one gave way, under 
the united pressure of stagnation in trade, and 
what is so well understood on change, by the terra 
tightness of the money market. Campbell & Co. 
sufiered severely ; and at length as the cloud still 
hung dark over their future prospects, the part- 
ners resolved on a dissolution, and general wind* 
up. 

The resolution, having been deliberately deter- 
mined upon, was carried out \<'ith a firmness worthy 
of imitation and a better fate ; and at length, every 
claim and liability having been first liquidated, the 
firm ceased to exist. 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XV 

Mr. A. Campbell retired into privacy with a 
shattered income, yet competent to enable him to 
maintain his family in comfort and respectabi- 
lity, and obtain for them a liberal education ; and 
to this important object all the remaining energies 
of a matured and cultivated intellect were direct- 
ed. It was fortunate that the care of a numer- 
ous family restrained him from brooding over his 
losses, that a something sufficiently powerful as to 
engage his mind still existed ; he had always been 
used to an active life, and the dangerous tenden- 
cies of want of occupation and overwhelming 
misfortunes can be far better imagined than de- 
scribed. Mr. Campbell at this period was sixty- 
five years of age, strong, hale, and hearty, and, 
aided by the consolation of religion, even resigned 
to his fate ; his family circle consisted of a wife 
and ten children, the eldest of whom had not then 
completed her nineteenth year ; labouring then 
with the sad memory of the past, and the doubt- 
ful prospect of his own and his children's future 
welfare, for ten years he spared no pains to per- 
form his duty as a father, and complete to the full 
that social contract, which should ever be felt an 
imperative and mutual duty upon parent and 
olFspring. 

Thus the autumn of life glided onwards, but 
soon came winter, stern and rugged, for a fresh 
misfortune befell him, — an adverse judgment in a 
chancery suit : now his cup of misery was filled 
to overflowing, and in drinking it to the dregs 
the old man's heart was crushed ; by little and 
litile the fearful reality became too apparent that 
the costs and legal expenses entailed by the fail- 
ure of the cause would leave but a wretched pit- 
tance for the support of his family ; gradually ):e 

B 



XVI BIOGRArniCAL SKETCH 

became unequal to mental exertion, — an Iron con« 
stitution carried him on for some years, yet he 
could scarcely be said to live, and at length he 
breathed his last at Edinburgh, In the month of 
March, 1801, falling to the earth as a shock of 
corn fully ripe, having reached the patriarchal 
age of ninety-one years, and dying respected and 
beloved by all who knew him. 

Thomas Campbell, as before mentioned, was 
born at Glasgow the 27th of July, 1777, being 
the eighth son, and the youngest of eleven child- 
ren. His appearance in life was made two years 
after his fatiier's retirement from business, and 
blighted as were family prospects through unde- 
served misfortunes, yet both Mr. and Mrs. Camp- 
bell found comfort and solace In their youngest 
boy. One by one the elder ones went forth to seek 
their fortunes in the world; and as the number 
round the domestic hearth lessened, the last comer 
seemed almost as of right to be entitled to a 
warmer corner, and If possible to a more jealous 
affection. His form has been described as fragile 
and his constitution delicate, with a pale expres- 
sive countenance, and a gentleness of manner 
which gained insensibly on the beholder. Very 
early his parents expressed the belief that genius 
sparkled in his eye, and consequently they lost no 
opportunity of improving by care and cultivation 
their discovery. Mrs. Margaret Campbell, his 
mother, had a strong taste for music, and from 
her he imbibed a fondness for the ballad poetry 
of Scotland, which never abandoned him ; that 
lady, even in the wane of life, loved to sing the 
favourite melodies of her youth, and thus, her last 
born, from his cradle became skilled in sweet sound? 
and the power of flowing numbers. 



OF Tno:\rAS campbell. xvji 

Until his eighth year he was grounded in his 
" rudiments" at home, when (as menlioned in his 
own reminiscences) he was confided to the care 
of David Alison, who appears to have been a ripe 
scholar and a skilful tutor ; under his eye Camp- 
bell showed "• he was no vulgar boy ;" the learned 
scholiast's experience and insight into character 
enabled him to see the course to be adopted ; he 
fathomed the child's sensitive disposition ; " he 
saw he was alive to praise, and readily daunted 
even by a look of sternness," — the fruits of cul- 
tivation soon followed : he succeeded in obtaining 
the post of honour at the head of his little class, — 
all parties were pleased, — the master commended 
his pupil, — the prizes, taken home, commended 
him to his parents ; and the feeling of having 
done his duty and deserved commendation, to 
some extent, even then, brought its own reward. 

Each day increased his ardour and strengthened 
his exertions, but tliis precocity produced physical 
debility ; his constitution, naturally delicate, suf- 
fered under study and sedentary habits, a serious 
illness followed, from which he recovered so tar- 
dily that change of scene and total vacuity from 
every thing like mental toil was deemed imper- 
atively necessary. Accordingly a spot (supposed 
to be the place already alluded to under the name 
of Pollock Shaws) was selected, where he was 
left to roam in green fields, taste the pure country 
air, and pick flowers. In a very few weeks the 
chan";e worked Avonders, and on his return home 
he seemed altogether another creature ; his coun- 
tenance was radiant with health and beauty, and 
to the latest period of his life, he was wont to 
refer with pleasure to the happiness he then 
enjoyed. 



XVlll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

These halcyon days of freedom and tranqnillltj 
brought, in addition to renewed heahh, other ad-^ 
vantages. Nature, viewed in all her loveliness, 
under a summer sun, aroused his mind to beauties 
previously unknown ; from this moment he awoke 
to poetry, and his very first attempt at verse was 
written upon the beauties of nature, in a " Poem 
on the Seasons." 

" Oil joyful spring, thy cheerful days prolong 
(The feathered songsters thus begin the song) 
Lo ! smiling May doth now return at last, 
But ah ! she runs along too fast. 
The sultry June arrives, ^hly's pleasure's short; 
I'et July yields some fruit for cool resort. 
Blest Autumn comes, arrayed in golden grain, 
And bounteously rewards the labouring swain," &c. 

On returning to the grammar-school in Sep- 
tember, he recommenced study with readiness, and 
made such rapid progress that, before he had 
completed his twelfth year, he had read through 
various Greek and Latin authors and poets, and 
could recite at length many of their most brilliant 
passages. 

Now appeared the first dawn of that enthusiasm 
which strongly developed itself in after years on 
the subject of Greek poetry ; he exhibited so 
much feeling to be well thought of in this depart- 
ment of literature, that it has been remarked by 
his intimate friends that Campbell's ambition was 
not so much to be esteemed a genuine poet as a 
ripe Greek scholar; and so skilful was he in 
Greek translations rendered into English verse, 
that, prior to the close of his scholastic career, he 
had not only gained popularity among his com- 
panions, encomiums oftentimes repeated from liis 
master, but several prizes at the public exar 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XlX 

niination of the School by the Chief Magis- 
trate.* 

The University of Glasgow differs from Oxford 
and Cambridire, particularly in this i-espect that 
it has, from the time of its foundation (shortly 
before the Reformation), received students at a 
\iivy early age, and thus it haj)pened that Camp- 
bell commenced his preparation for college life 
before he had com|)ieted his thirteenth year. 
With the prospect of matriculation at hand, for 
months previous to the actual commencement of 
the October session he was engaged in a repernsal 
of his " old books," feeling a laudable desire to be 
prepared for "a fair start" with the freshmen of 
his year. Mr. Alison prophesied distinction, his 
family expected great things, and he determined 
to aim high, and realize, if possible, their fondest 
hopes. This may seem far-fetched in sjoeaking 
of a mere child, yet it will be remembered that 
his mind was cast in no ordinary mould, and his 
zeal much heightened by early successes. 

In the October term of 1701 commenced his 
novitiate at college, and here the effect of judicious 
training at school quickly manifested itself. Be- 
fore many months had elapsed he had gained a 
position in the Latin, Greek, and Logic classes, 
and, before he had completed his fourteenth year, 
had gained from the college authorities a prize for 
English and Latin verse, and a still more substan- 
tial mark of a[)probation, a bursary or exhibition 
on Archbishop Leighton's foundation. This boon 
was not awaidi'd without reference to merit and 
ability, or upon the ground of the known straitened 

* See specin.cns of translations from Anacreon at tJie age 
of twelve, yeiirs, " Beattic's Life and Letters of Caiupbeli," 
voL i. p. 36. 



XX BIOGRAFHICAL SKETCH 

circumstances of his parents, but was fairly won 
after an examination before the whole faculty in 
construing and Latin writing, and after competi- 
tion v/ith a fellow student by several years his 
senior. The result of the first session was satis- 
factory, 3^et in after years he oflen confessed that 
he was much more inclined to sport than to study, 
and it would seem that what he accomplished was 
not always the result of patient application to 
booivs, but rather of that natural facility which 
enabled him to see clearer than many of his fellow 
undei'graduates, who trusted solely to unwearied 
attention for the chance of distinction. Tliere 
can be no question that the colour of the remain- 
der of his collecre career took its briditest tinge 
from the first essay, tliough he himself, w^itli pleas- 
uig modesty, speaks in the following terms of his 
academical career: — ''^ Some oi i. ^, biographers 
have, in their friendly zeal, exaggerated my tri- 
umphs at tlie Univei'sity. It is not true that I 
carried away all the prizes, for I was idle in some 
of the classes, and being obliged by my necessities 
to give elementary instruction to younger lads, 
my powers of attention were exhausted in teaching 
when I ought to liave been learning." Yet the 
facts are in his favour ; the repeated prizes award- 
ed (many of tliem now^ in existence) speak for 
themselves, and sliow that he was not, in the 
ordinary acceptation of tlie word, idle ; probably 
he placed iiis standard so high, that, failing in liis 
own judgment to reach it, this induced dispraise 
and tlie selt'-imj)utation of" idleness. 

At this [)eriod his first ballad, entitled " Morven 
and Fiilan," was printed for distribution and cir- 
culation amongst his friends and fellow- students : 
it comprised one hundred and forty hnes, many 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XXI 

of tliem both spirited and original. The following 
are the first four : — 

"Loud brcatlied afar the angry sprite 
That rode upon the storm of night, 
And loud the Avaves were heard to roar, 
That hishcd on Morveu's rocky shore." 

Campbell's second year at the University (Ses- 
sions 1792 and 1793) was marked by fresh indi- 
cations of progress. Professor Jardine, Lecturer 
in the Logic class, awarded him the eighth prize 
for the best composition on various subjects, the 
third prize in the Greek class for exemplary 
conduct, and furtlier i)aid him the compliment of 
appointing him examiner of the exercises sent 
in by the members of the Logic class ; but the 
crowning honour of the year was reserved for the 
last day of the session, the 1st of May, wdien his 
" Poem on Description *' carried away the palm 
against a host of competitors. This j)roduction 
marks the progress he had made in versification 
since the previous autumn, and is entitled " A 
Description of the Distribution of Prizes in the 
Common Hall of the University of Glasgow, on 
the 1st of May, 1793," — his motto was taken 
from Pope. 

" Nor fame I slight, nor for her favour call, 
She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all." 

For some weeks after the commencement of 
the vacation, Campbell " tried his hand " at the 
law, and with a view of adopting it as a profes- 
sion, was accommodated with a desk and seat in 
tlie office of his relative, Mr. Alexander Camp- 
bell, writer to the Signet of Glasgow. Here, ac- 
cording to the approved fashion and custom of 
that day (happily, now in a great measure ;x- 



\. 



XXU BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

ploded), lie commenced the study of jurispru- 
dence, — not by learning princi[>les, but groping 
in the dark at the practice oi the profession by 
transcribing " drafts, deeds, abbreviating plead- 
ings," and the like drudgery. 

This mysterious method of penetrating the 
arcana of an honourable and scientific calling, 
operated so prejudicially ^nat before autumn he 
gave up all thoughts of advancing his fortunes by 
the avenue of the law, and, therefore, relinquish- 
ing his seat in the office, directed his mind to 
more congenial pursuits — poetry, classical read- 
ing, and preparation for the ensuing college term. 

Among the miscellaneous pieces struck off in 
the course of the autumn was a brochure sunirest- 
ed-by the enormities of the French llevolution — 
the subject being the cruelties inflicted on the ill- 
fated Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. This 
effusion excited the sympathy of many who read 
it, and was deemed worth insertion in the " Poet's 
Corner "of the leading journal of Glasgow. 

In the course of his third year at the Univer- 
sity (1793-4), in addition to a debating society 
into which Campbell had been previously enroll- 
ed, whereat he was a popular orator, and to which 
belonged nearly all his principal contemporaries, 
thei-e was another, called the " Discursive," of 
which he himself has thus written: "There was, 
moreover, a debating society, called the Discur- 
sive, composed almost entirely of boys as young 
as myself, and I was infatuated enough to become 
a leader in this spouting club. It is true, that 
we had promising spirits among us, and, in par- 
ticular, could boast of Gregory Watt, son of the 
immortal Watt, a youth unparalleled in his early 
talent for eloquence. With melodious elocution, 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XXUl 

great acuteness in argument, and rich unfailing 
fluency of diction, he seemed born to become a 
great orator, and I have no doubt would have 
shone in Parliament, had he not been carried off 
by consumption in his five-and-twentieth year. 
He was literally the most beautiful youth I ever 
saw. When he was only twenty-two, an eminent 
English artist (Howard, I think) made his head 
ths model of a ])icture of Adam. But though 
we had this splendid stripling, and other mem- 
bers that were not untalented, we had no head 
amon<]r us old and judicious enounjli to make the 
society a proper palcestra for our mental powers, 
and it degenerated into a place of general quizzing 
and eccentricity." 

In the s[)ring of 1794, Campbell, in consideration 
of good conduct, obtained a few days' leave of 
absence from his " Alma Mater," and visited 
Edinburgh to witness the trial of Joseph Gerrald 
and others (the Scottish Reformers) charged with 
the crime of sedition. To him, all the proceed- 
ings were novel : it was his first visit to the Parlia- 
ment House, and the scene he there beheld made 
so powerful an impression upon his mind, that the 
lapse of years could not efface its vivid recollec- 
tion. Various circumstances conspired to pro- 
duce this : intense political excitement reigned at 
the time, crowds thronged the court, the bearing 
of the prisoners Avas touching ; Gerrald's demean- 
our, in particular, was very bold and determined ; 
his appeal to the court and jury was eloquent; 
and when the case terminated with the conviction 
of the accused and their sentence to transporta- 
tion, he left the court all glowing in the cause of 
freedom, and full of sympathy with those he 
deemed oppressed. With feelings wrought to the 



XXIV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

highest pitch, he returned to college a graver, if 
not a wiser, youth — determined to devote all his 
powers to the pursuit of learning, in order to aid 
the better in tlie emancipation of his family from 
their impoverished condition. Hitherto he had 
been one of " the gayest of tlie gay," in vacation- 
time, and had joined, witli that ardour which is 
usually the companion of sanguine temperaments, 
in the si)orts and amusements of youth. Now, 
these were at once and for ever laid aside, — his 
characteristic wit and sprightliness for a time 
seemed gone, and, in their pLice, appeared the 
gravity and subdued bearing of " a reverend se- 
nior." He read with avidity the newspapers, and 
particularly the journals supposed to have a 
liberal bias ; in fact many of the works he greed- 
ily perused had been previously unheard of and 
unknown to him. At the debating society, he 
commented in glowing language u})on the " ani- 
mus " which pervaded the political trials of the 
day, pased severe strictures on the corrupt state 
of modern legislation, sighed over the departed 
glories of Athens and Sparta, and, in private, 
appeared as though he had sustained some severe 
personal wrong which he could not forgive with- 
out some manifestation of feeling or retaliation. 
Raillery in plenty he met with ; yet this he bore 
with the heroism of a martyr ; aiid it was, at last, 
Time alone that healed the wound, and enabled 
him to dismount from his stilts and recover his 
composure. 

At the termination of the third session, he came 
in again for honours. In the Moral Philosophy 
class he received a prize for his poetical essay on 
the Origin of Evil. In the Greek class he gain- 
ed the lirst prize tor the best translation of pas- 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XXV 

sages from the Clouds of Aristophanes. In 
reference to these pleasing incidents he has left 
the following: — ''Professor Young pronounced 
my version, in his opinion, the best essay that had 
ever been given in by any student at the Univer- 
sity." This was no small praise to a boy of fif- 
teen, from John Young, who, with the exception 
of Miller, was the ablest man in the college. 

One day, shortly before the close of this ses- 
sion, while Professor Arlhur, of the Moral Phi- 
losophy Chair, was showing the University to an 
English gentleman, who had come into the class- 
room, the poet says, — " I happened to be stand- 
ing unobserved behind him, and could hear 
distinctly the conversation that passed between 
them. ' And is there any one among your stu- 
dents,' inquired the stranger, ' who shows a talent 
for poetry?' * Yes,' said the Professor, 'there is 
one, Campbell, who shows a very promising talent.' 
Little knev^ the Professor that I was listening to 
Uiis question and answer. In explanation of this 
'talent,' 1 had written in Arthur's class a verse 
Bssay on the Origin of Evil, for which I after- 
wards received the prize, and which gave me a 
\ocal celebrity throughout all Glasgow, Irom the 
High Church down to the bottom of the Salt- 
market ! It was even talked of, as I am credibly 
informed, by the students over their oysters at 
Lucky M'Al})ine's, in the Trongate ! " 

At this period, in addition to Campbell's labours 
on his own account, were adiled those of tuition ; 
for thus early iie was em[)loyed, on the recom- 
mendation of some of the college authorities, as 
private tutor to stiveral of his fellow-students. 

From the period of gaining the last-mentioned 
prizes may be dated constantly increasing mani- 



XXVI BIOvOKArillCAL SKILTCH 

festations of esteem and _^oo>'l-will from the " Pro- 
fessors " and his ielbw-stadeiits. By the latter 
his talents liad been already appreciated. Now the 
high opinion entertained by them was more openly 
acknowledged ; his opinion was asked on diifi* 
cult and abstruse readings, his style of com[)osi- 
tion imitated, and envy^ if she existed at all in the 
breasts of any of his contemporaries, seemed dis- 
armed of her string ; his sympathies were heart 
and soul with his companions, and there was la- 
vished upon him all the warmth and affection of 
generous hearts unscathed by misfortunes, in no 
degree hardened by contact with the world. 

At this time he believed (and he luxuriated in 
the thought) that all difficulties could be sur- 
mounted by industry and perseverance ; and strong 
in this reliance he dii'ccted his mind to the study 
of the Old Testament in the original Hebrew, and 
to the works of the best commentators and wri- 
ters on ecclesiastical history, experiencing then 
a desire to make the Church his future call- 
ing. One of the first results of this theological 
train of thought Avas his well-known " Hymn on 
the Advent of Christ," which may be found in 
most compilations of sacred poetry. Yet at this 
time he was fully alive to the low ebb of his fa- 
mily fortunes ; that Kirnan, " the home of his 
forefathers," was " roofless and wild ; " and fur- 
ther, that without interest, preferment in the cle- 
rical profession might be very tardy in rewarding 
labours, though undertaken with the purest mo- 
tives. This, and no foolish vacillation or love for 
change, compelled him to watch events, and en- 
deavour to strike out a path not merely congenial 
to his wishes, but capable of affording a sulii- 
ciency for the supply of his necessary wants. 



uF t:ig:.:ao CA::i'ii::LL. xxvii 

About this time he went so fur as to attend 
certain medical lectures, but unfortunately being 
too hastily introduced into the operating room, 
and there witnessing a succession of " casualties," 
amputations, and the tiiousand other " ills that 
flesh is heir to," he contracted so strong a re- 
pugnance to surgical " operations," that he could 
not bring his mind to renew his visits either to 
the demonstrator's apartment, or the wards of the 
hospitah 

In the session of 1794 and 1795 (his fourth year 
at college), honours still attended him, yet his 
brightest hours were haunted by the knowledge 
that his father's slender income had become still 
more limited by the failure of the chancery suit. 
Young as Campbell was, he determined to make 
some eflbrt to smooth the declining days of his 
venerable sire. lie therefore eageily sought for 
something which might aid in this labour of love ; 
and through the patronage of the College Profes- 
sors, willingly exercised, he became tutor to the 
children of Mrs. Campbell, of Sunipol, in the 
Hebrides (a distant relative), from the month of 
May to the ensuing October, when it was arranged 
that he should return home, and resume his 
academic studies. 

Preliminaries having been settled he started 
(on the 18th of May, 1795) with his I'riend and 
class-fellow the late Ivev. Joseph Finlayson, 
D. D.) who was about to pass the vacation in the 
?ame mode as himself. The young ti'avellers 
took the road to Inverary, and after a journey full 
of incident, the wild shores of Mull broke upon 
their sight. At first Campbell acutely lelt the 
loneliness of his situation, but soon became recon- 
ciled, lor the country, though bleak and wild, was 



XXVlll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

peculiarly romantic, and nourished the poetry in 
his soul. 

In the autumn he returned to Gla.=:gow, with a 
mind enlarged by the realization of objects at that 
time little visited. Statfa and Icolmkill, and the 
venerable ruins of lona, these and other wonders 
filled his mind with sensations hitherto unknown. 
The return journey occupied himself and friend 
(Finlayson) four days, and was performed in bad 
weather. Between Oban and Lochawe Side the 
travellers were benighted, and losing their way, 
were forced to bivouac for the night on the lee- 
side of a bare wall, without any other covering 
than their Highland plaids. 

In Campbell's fifth and last session at College 
(1795 and 179G) it was his good fortune, in addi- 
tion to the pecuniary emolument realized by tui- 
tion, to gain two prize poems, one for the Choe- 
phorce of 7£schylus, and the other ibr a Chorus 
in the Medea of Euripides. Among his pupils at 
this time was one of the present Lords of Session, 
Lord Cuninghame, of whom the poet has left the 
following reminiscence : — "After my return from 
Mull, I supported myself during the winter by 
private tuition. Among other scholars, I had a 
youth named Cuninghame, who is now Lord 
Cuninghame, in the Justiciary Court of Edin- 
burgh. Grave as he is now, he was, when I 
taught him Xenophon and Lucian, a fine, laugh- 
ing, open-hearted boy, and so near my own age, 
thai we were rather like playfellows than precep- 
tor and pupil. Sometimes, indeed, I used to be- 
labour him — jocosely alleging my sacred duty as 
a tutor — but I seldom succeeded in suppressing 
his risibility." 

During his last year at College, Campbeira 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XXIX 

mina 'argely expanded, and in after years he 
referred Avitli es])eeial pleasure to the benefit lie 
derived from tlie leetui-es of Professor Miller on 
the Roman Law, and his explanations of lleinec- 
cius. 

At length, academic studies completed, days 
gilded by success and honours, the future broke 
in upon him dark and stern, and, compelled to act 
with promptitude, he entered General Napier's 
family as tutor to the present Sir William Napier, 
of Milliken, Argyleshire, where he continued 
until the end of March, 1797," when he re-visited 
Glasgow, carrying with him the respect and es- 
teem of all with whom he had become acquainted. 
The General himself felt so strong an interest in 
his welfare that he expended much time and 
trouble to smooth the way for his going to the 
bar; but the want of the necessary pecuniary 
advances from his protege'' s friends rendered his 
eflbrts abortive. 

The disappointment occasioned by blighted 
hope was acutely felt; the apathy of family con- 
nections, who might have materially aided his 
onward progress, was '" gall and wormwood ;" 
many of his connections warmly apjjlauded his 
talents, but any thing further than barren praise 
seemed quite ibreign to their views ; the effect of 
hope deterred was in this case truly to make the 
heait sick ; a raging fever supervened ; youth, 
however, befriended him — he slowly recovered, 
and hai)pily his sufferings were productive of this 
beneficial result — they engendered calmness and 
resignation, and he was enabled at length to gaze 
upon the future, barren and cheerless as it was, 
with a steady eye. The next eifort to better him- 
Belf was a journey to Edinburgh, where he ob- 



XXX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

tained an introduction to Dr. Robert Anderson, 
who, at first siglit, pleased with his appearance 
and conversation, recog;nized a kindred spirit, 
soothed and cherished him, and in a few days 
recommended him as a young gentleman of great 
promise to Mr. Mundell, deceased, the publisher, 
who at once employed him to compile an abridg- 
ment of Bryan Edwards's West Indies ; this he 
gladly accepted, and when the task was completed, 
other literary work was provided, yet the remun- 
eration for this compilatory writing was so scanty 
as to do little more than provide the bare neces- 
saries of life, and this compelled Campbell, against 
his inclination, to recommence teaching, and then 
he found his recommendations to Professor Dalzell 
of essential service, through whose assistance he 
obtained pupils, by whom he was remunerated 
upon a liberal scale. 

In this way, for some time, he made a comfort- 
able livelihood, but at last, as liis pupils finished 
their course of study, he took no pains to recruit 
the vacancies in his class, but directed his mind 
(for he would be an author) to original composi- 
tion. The subject he at length fixed upon was, 
" The Pleasures of Hope," a theme suggested in 
part at least by Rogers's " Pleasures of Memory," 
and in part, while melancholy and lonely on the 
wild shores of Mull, by his friend Mr. Hamilton 
Paul. 

In writing of these early days, Campbell says, 
"And now I lived in the Scottish metropolis by 
instructing pupils in Greek and Latin. In this 
vocation I made a comfortable livelihood, as long 
as I was industrious. But ' The Pleasures of 
Hope ' came over me. I took long walks about 
Arthur's Seat, conning over my own (as I thought 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XXXI 

them) magnificent lines ; and as my ' Pleasures 
of Hope ' got on, my pupils fell off. I was not 
friendless, nor quite solitary at this period in Edin- 
burgh. My aunt, JMrs. Campbell, and her beauti- 
ful dausrhter Marsjaret — so beautiful that she was 
commonly called Mary, Queen of Scots — used to 
receive me kindly of an evening, whenever I 
called ; and it was to them — and with no small 
encouragement — that I first recited my poem 
when it was finished." — " I had other friends also 
whose attachment was a solace to my life. Before 
I became known as an author, I was intimate 
with Francis Jeffrey, and with Thomas Brown, 
afterwards the successor of Dugald Stewart in 
the Moral Philosophy Chair of Edinburgh. I 
was also acquainted with Dr. Anderson, author 
of ' The Lives of the British Poets.' " 

For a short time Campbell was absent from 
the Scottish metropolis, on a visit to Glasgow ; 
on his return, having shown " The Pleasures of 
Hope " to some confidential friends, they suggested 
its immediate publication. But how ? Tiiis was 
the question. At first it was proposed to publish 
by subscription, and the patronage of his own and 
the sister University of Edinburgh was promised ; 
yet, after calculation of the probable expenses of 
printing and publishing, it seemed doubtful if the 
author would reap much substantial reward, and 
consequently he was advised to sell to the book- 
sellers the copyright of his work. 

With this in view. Dr. Anderson waited upon 
Mr. Mundell, (the only publisher with whom 
Camj)bell had, up to this time, realized any profit- 
able connection,) and entered with him upon the 
merits of the Poem ; and after the matter had 
been well weighed, considered, and reconsidered, 
C 



XXXll ETOOPvArniCAL SKETCH 

Mr Mundell offered for the copyright, Sixty 
Pounds^ which the author was tain to accept. 

Some time before the work actually appeared, 
it was announced " in the press ; " and both sub- 
ject and author aiforded matter for specuhition'and 
conversation in the hterary world. Some parties 
had already seen the manuscript, or parts of it, 
and these all spoke in favour of the production, 
so tliat the writer found his circle of acquaintance 
daily extending. On the 27th of A})ril, 1790, 
" The Pleasures of Hope " appeared ibr the first 
time, its author being at that time just twenty-one 
years and nine months old. It fully equalled the 
expectations previously formed of it ; the topics 
worked out in realizing the subject were the very 
matters at the time before the public, — the great 
Revolution in France — the Partition of Poland — 
the question of the Abolition of Negro Slavery — 
all these the writer had by a plastic hand made 
completely his own. Few generous minds failed 
to experience delight on reading Campbell's glow- 
ing; lano-uaiie and rich ima<jjerY. 

Madame de Stael was one of the foremost of 
the eminent literary characters of the day, who 
expressed her admiration of this poem. Some 
time afterwards, she told Campbell that she had 
been so captivated with the episode (Conrad and 
Ellenore), that she could read it twenty times over 
without lessening the effect which the first peru- 
sal had awakened in her mind.* The addition 

* ^'■Sivikholm, ce 5 Janiier, 1813. 

"A M. TriOMAs Campbell. 

" PeiKhint les dix annees que m'a^-ent s(^pard de I'Augle- 
terre, jMonsieur, le Pcieine aiigiais qui m'n causd le plus 
d' Amotion — la p(ienie qui ne me quittait Jamais — et que je reli- 
sai sans cesse jiour adoucir mes clia»niis par relevatiuu da 



OF THOMAS CAMrBF.LL. XXXIU 

of " The Pleasures of Hope " to British poesy 
soon became Avidely known, and few were the po- 
litical rfjunions, on the liberal side at least, wlicre 
some quotations were not made, from lannuage 
which marked a generous heart and an ardent 
love of liberty. 

Every line in tliis work is now as " familiar in 
our mouths as household words," yet it can be 
comprehended with what eagerness sueli strains 
as the following must have been caught up, and 
reechoed throughout the length and breadth of 
the land : — 

"Departed spirits of the mistity dead, 
Ye that at Miiratlioii and Leuctra bled, 
Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead tlie van." 

In a second edition (wliich Avas speedily followed 
by several others) new passages were felicitously 
introduced, particularly one descriptive of the dis- 
solution of the body, and the fliglit of the soul to 
its original source ; these served to cement the 
more closely the fabric already erected. Some 
smaller poems, the " Harper," " Gilderoy," and 
others, meeting with a favourable reception fi'oni 
the [)ublic, inspired their author with fiesh cou- 
rage and energy. 

Various shadowy castles now floated through 
the poet's brain, but the bent of his inclination, in 
the spring of the year 1800, led him to celebrate 
the achievements of Scotia's mighty dead, in her 
struggles for independence and liberty ; the work 

Tame, c'est Les Plaisirs de I'Ksperrince. bV-pisode d'Kllcnoro 
siu-tout, iilhut tenement a inon co-ur (jue je pourrais hi relira 
viugt fois, suns eu atiuiblir 1' impression. . .... 



XXXIV BlOGTlArniCAL SKETCH 

was to have been called the " Queen of the 
Korlh," and to enable him to collect materieL he 
proposed making a personal visit to the Conti- 
nent, for it was men as well as their writings lie 
would converse with. Having arranged preli- 
minaries, and being armed with letters of intro- 
duction to gentlemen eminent in various depart- 
ments, he set sail for Leith, bound for Hamburg, 
on the 1st of June, 1800 (being accompanied to 
the vessel by Mr. Richardson, and his old pupil 
Mr. Cuningliame). After a protracted voyage 
of several days, he reached the port of Hamburg 
in safety, where he was received by the British 
residents with great kindness. In some instances 
fame had ah-eady preceded him ; in other cases his 
letters of introduction obtained all he desired. To 
his new friends he frankly stated the object of his 
visit, and acting upon tlieir suggestions, he remain- 
ed in the port of disembarcation for some time, in 
order to gain a more accurate knowledge of Ger- 
man, and a greater facility in its dialogue, than he 
had previously attained. At this period the fever 
of politics ran high both at home and abroad, and 
Campbell, dissuaded from prosecuting his original 
plan of visiting Gottingen, Jena, and Weimar, 
yielded to the counsel of those who advised him, 
on the expiration of his sojourn at Hamburg, to 
proceed to Ilatisbon, place himself under the pro- 
tection of the venerable President of the Scotch 
College (Arbuthnot), and there in freedom from 
interruption, having enjoyed facility for study 
afterwards in security sail down the Danube tc 
Vienna. After a stay of some nine or ten weeks, 
Campbell set out for Katisbon, where he arrived 
three days only before it was taken by the French; 
happily lor him he gained a sanctuary in time, and 



LIBRARY 
NOV12'1890 



XXXV 



was, on his arrival, most kindly received by his 
compnl riots — the monks of the Benedictine Col- 
lege, from whose walls he beheld sights of horror 
which nothing could obliterate from his recollec- 
tion. His lirst introduction to the miseiies of war 
was in company wMth his new acquaintances ; from 
their hospice he beheld a charge of Klennan's 
cavalry upon the French under Grenier — he saw 
the fire given and returned, and heard distinctly 
the sound of the French pas-de-charge collecting 
the lines to attack in close colunm, then a })ark of 
artillery opened just beneath the walls of the 
monastery, and several drivers there stationed 
to convey the wounded in spring wagons, were 
killed in his sight. Campbell thus referred to the 
sad scene : — " Tiiis formed the most important 
epoch of my life in point of impressions, but these 
impressions of seeing numbers of men strewed 
dead on the field, or what was worse, seeing them 
in the act of dying, were so horrible to my me- 
mory, that 1 studied to banish them. At times, 
when 1 have been fevered and ill, I have awoke 
from nightmare, dreaming about these dreadful 
images." 

Campbell was detained in Ratisbon longer than 
he anticipated, and these scenes of strife and blood- 
shed were by no means conducive to quiet and 
steady reading ; his mind also was harassed by 
uncertainty concerning the future ; great dilliculty 
existed in kee[)ing up a communication with Great 
Britain ; two armies were ])resent in the country; 
there was a probability of long protracted war. 
These things produced no small depression of 
spirits. ISome absurb rumours also were afloat, 
that his visit to the Continent (made at such a 
crisis) was for a jjolitical purpose — in other word>, 



XXXVl BIOGRArniCAL SKETCH 

he was suspected of being a spy : tlius bis state 
of suspense was increased by the fear that, even 
if war ceased, and the French dragoijns were with- 
drawn, he might be detained a prisoner. These 
things, in combination, served to excite him and 
to induce great discomfort. At length, after 
many days of doubt, during which he was '*• cabin- 
ed " within the walls of Katisbon (though it seems 
he did avail himself of an armistice, and pene- 
trate as far as Munich), he obtained his pa-ssports, 
and, in the month of November, via Leipsic, 
returned to Hamburg, whence he proceeded to 
Altona, and passed the winter in study and re- 
tirement. To the reading of Kant's Philosophy 
many successive weeks were devoted, varied, for 
the sake of relaxation, by the perusal of the 
works of Schiller, Wieland, and Burger, and oc- 
casional pedestrian excursions into the neighbour- 
ing country. Here he composed or revised for 
publication fourteen small pieces, which appeared 
successively in the " Morning Chronicle ; " of these, 
only four have been preserved amongst his print- 
ed poems. As the winter drew to a close, and 
while in actual correspondence with a friend, touch- 
ing a grand tour through Hungary and Turkey, the 
real state of matters on the Continent appeared. In 
a moment the crisis came. Great Britain, fearing 
a strong coalition against her, took measures to pre- 
vent it; and, on the 12th of March, her fleet ap- 
peared in the Sound, ready for any demonstration. 
This arrival produced great excitement amongst 
the English residents at Altona, and was increased 
materially by the fact of the town being situate 
on the Danish shore. It required no prophet or 
herald to warn foreigners that Altona was no 
place of saf(;ty for them. Campbell himself con- 



OF TnO>IAS CA.MPBELL. XXXVll 

vincrMl of the necessity of retiring from the scene, 
prepared to follow the example of such of the 
British subjects as were able to leave, and, accord- 
ingly, he secured a passage for Leith in a vessel 
called the Royal George. When the ship raised 
anchors and dropped down the river, she became 
an object of intense interest to many bystanders: 
some mourned that they had no homes to flee to; 
others felt deep uncertainty touching the events 
of a single day — whether famine, incarceration, or 
death. At the mouth of the Elbe, the Koyal 
George was detained several days by adver.-e 
winds ; and when, at last, they became favour- 
able, much to the disappointment of the passen- 
gers, signal was given by the convoy to sail for 
Yarmouth Roads, instead of Leith, for the reason 
that most of the ships convoyed were English. 

After a wearisome passage, and a narrow escape 
from a Danish pi-ivateer. who chased the ship 
almost into port, Campbell arrived at Yarmouth, 
and proceeded in the mail to London, where he 
was most cordially welcomed by Mr. Perry, of 
the " INIorning Chronicle," who declared, warmly, 
"I will be your friend; I will be all that you 
could wish me to be!" And nobly did he fulfil 
his promise : he took his jyrotege. by the hand, 
encouiagt^l him, and circulated the 'news of his 
arrival ; so that, in a few days, under the patron- 
age of Lord Holland, he was at once introduced 
to some of the most eminent literary characters 
of the time. 

On the poet's first dehiit into London life, and 
within a fortnight after his arrival from the Con- 
tinent, intelligence reached him, through Dr. 
Anderson, of the death of his father. This event, 
for a time, destroyed the will and the power of 



XXXVUl BIOGR^U»niCAL SKETCH 

enjoying the brilliant society into wliich lie liad 
been received, and actualed by feelings of sym- 
pathy and affection, he ])romptly proceeded to 
Edinburgh to console and comfort his mother. 
He performed the journey by sea ; and during the 
voyage, one of his fellow passengers, a lady, in- 
formed him "that the author of the 'Pleasures 
of Hope ' liad been arrested in London for high 
treason and sent to the Tower." Amazed at the 
suggestion of his treason, no sooner had he seen 
his mother, and comforted her to the best of his 
ability, than he found some enemy had been at 
work — tiiere was truth in the alleged rumor of 
his treasonable pi'actices. Desirous to refute the 
calumny as speedily as possible, on the day suc- 
ceeding his arrival, he waited upon the sheriff of 
Edinburgh, who at once expressed regret at his 
presence, saying, " There is a warrant out againsf 
you for high treason. It seems that you have 
been conspiring with General Moreau in Austria, 
and with the Irish at Hamburg to get a French 
army landed in Ireland, but I know there is a 
geni;ral unwillingness among those in ])ower to 
punish your error, so take my advice and do not 
press yourself on my notice." Campbell urged 
U];on the sheriff' the absurdity of his (a mei'e boy) 
cons})iring against the British Empire, and de- 
manded proofs, when it was urged, " Oh, you 
attended Jacobin clubs at Hamburg, and came 
over thence in the same vessel with Donovan, 
who commanded a regiment of the rebels at Vine- 
gar Hill ; " to this it was an.-wered that he (Camp- 
bell) had never heard of Jacobin clubs at Ham- 
burg, and as to the rebel Donovan he did not 
know of his being a fellow passenger, until he saw 
him on deck. On further examination, and read- 



OF THOMAS CA:\irBELL. XXXIX 

ing the contents of papers found in tlie poet's 
trunk, wliich liad been seized on its wav irom 
Yarmouth to P^dinbnrgii, the sheriff began to see 
the groundlessness of the charge, and when he 
had read a copy of the " Mariners of Enghmd,'* 
found amongst the supposed trea>onabk^. papers, 
he said, " This comes of trusting to a. Hamburg 
spy," and observing that the evening was cohl and 
wet, lie insisted npon Campbell remaining and 
partaking with him a bottle of wine, after which 
he dismissed him in high good humour. And thus, 
with a character honourably cleared, the young 
poet was restored to the good o])inion of many 
who had been foolishly credulous in his guilt. 

Campbell, on entering u))on family pro-pects, 
found cause tor great solicitude, yet he did not 
shrink from what he considered his duty to })ro- 
vide house and home for his mother and sisters ; 
and with this praiseworthy object in view, he un- 
dertook some heavy literary task-works, the pro- 
ceeds whereof he devoted entirely to their use. 

In the autumn of this year (IHOl ), Lord Minto, 
who had then recently returned from the Court 
of Vienna, where he had resided as l^ritish Envoy 
Extraordinary, invited him on a visit to Minto 
Castle. The invitation was accepted, and the 
result of the visit was so agreeable to both parties, 
that Campbell consented to take uj) his cpiarters 
for the ensuing season at his Lordship's mansion 
in Hanover S(piare. 

On his arrival in the metropolis, all faces seemed 
to smile upon him. Cards of invitation from 
persons of the highest distinction were left tor him, 
the world greeted him with its most seductive 
smile. Lords Minto and Holland vied with each 
other in their fostering care, and, as by the wave 



Xl BIOGRArniCAL SKETCH 

of a faiiy wand, he was received into the best 
and most intellectual society of the whole world. 

The season was passed in one continual wliirl 
of excitement and gayety. His happiest moments 
were tho.^^e which he ])assed in quiet conversation 
with Telford, Mrs. Siddons, and the Kembles, of 
whose notice and friendship he was most justly 
proud. 

At lenijth tired of dust, spangle, and the gayety 
of fashionable life, he hailed with delight the termi- 
nation of the fashionable year, and the prospect of 
repose. He had been solicited to spend the sum- 
mer at Minto, and, after some hesitation, accept- 
ed this renewed offer of hospitality, and in due 
course proceeded northwards with his lordship ; 
but on reaching Newcastle, tidings arrived that 
the scarlet fever had appeared at the castle. This 
induced a postponement of the visit, and the poet 
betook himself to Edinburgh, where he passed 
some time in Alison Square, with his mother and 
sisters, occupied in preparing for press the poems 
of Lochiel and liohenlinden (which soon after- 
wards appeared, dedicated to Mr. Alison, Prebend- 
ary of Salisbury). The autumn was chiefly spent 
at Minto, during which period he was engaged in 
revising the proofs of a new edition of his poems, 
writing articles in prose for booksellers (a labour, 
as he himself said, little superior to compilation, 
and more connected with prolit than rej)utation), 
editing an edition of Greek tragedies, collect- 
ing materials for a continuation of Hume and 
Smollett's England, and thus the winter passed 
away. 

In the month of February, 1802, he proceeded 
to Liverpool, and after a detour throu^]i the Staf- 
fordshire })Otteries (under the escort of Mr. Ste- 



OF THOMAS CAMTBELL. xH 

venson), he proceeded to London on a visit to liia 
stanch friend, Mi-. Thomas Telford, tlie celebrated 
engineer, who at that time occupied a suite of 
apartments at the Salopian Hotel, in Charing 
Cross, and felt much anxiety on behalf of his 
young friend, wishing to bind him to a sort of ct)m- 
pact to act as he and Mr. Alison might suggest, 
not because he had any fear of his success in the 
literary w-orld, but because he knew that he Avas 
but partially acquainted with business rules and 
habits, upon which human happiness and worldly 
success so greatly depend. 

The locale of Charing Cross was uncongenial 
to Campbell's taste ; the noise, dust, and crowd, 
made him sigh for a quiet, rural home ; and his 
remarks and letters to his friends at the time, 
manifest that the gayeties of a London life were 
very far from consonant to his feelings. lie com- 
plained of being unable to fix himself to any thing, 
having one eternal round of invitations to occupy 
him, having entered " a style of life which neither 
suited purse nor health, not one day free of head- 
aches, nor one night of tolerable rest." 

Li the month of June, the lirst quarto edition 
of " The Pleasures of Hope," with illustrations, 
and accompanied by several new^ pieces of poetry, 
appeared, and was so eagerly sought after that, 
added to the incense of praise he received, his 
spirits became so elevated and buoyed up by faith 
in his old creed, that industry and perseverance 
could surmount all difficulties, he made up his 
mind to get married, and take a partner for life. 
He had long cherished feelings of regard for his 
cousin, Matilda Sinclair, daughter of Mr. Kobert 
Sinclair, for many years a wealthy merchant, and 
first magistrate of Greenock, but who at this time, 



Xlli BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

through severe losses, had contracted his sphere, 
and transferred his counting-house to Trinity 
Square, City, and his family to Park Street, 
Westminster. Here Camphell was allowed the 
entree,, and soon the old attachment I'ipened on 
both sides into an ardent flame. The young 
lady's hand was in due course solicited ; he be- 
came an accepted suitor; a something was said 
about ways and means, for Mr. Sinclair candidly 
confessed he was unable to give any dowry. All 
difficulties, however, were made light of, scruples 
vanished, and the young couple were united in 
Hymen's bonds at St. Margaret's, Westminster, 
on the 10th of September, 1802, in the presence 
of Mr. Sinclair's family, and a party of friends. 

At the expiration of the honeymoon, the bride 
and bridegroom returned to London, and took up 
their residence in apartments in Pimlico, which 
had been furnished and prepared for them by 
Mr. Sinclair. 

For many months life seemed more and more 
sunny ; literary employment poured in upon him, 
and he w'as honoured by the offer of the Regent's 
Chair in the Russian University of Wilna. His 
friends, the Lords Minto and Holland, and Mr. 
Dugald Stewart, thought this a favourable oppor- 
tunity for his advancement, but Campbell, though 
at lirst relishing the proposition, and even going 
so far as to have an interview on the subject with 
the Russian minister, on second thoughts, and 
hearing stipulations, felt that he could not aban- 
don liberal opinions cherished from early youth, 
and inculcate views totally foreign to them, with- 
out much mental torture and sacrifice of inde- 
pendence; therefore he respectfully declined the 
distinction : besides, in a pecuniary point of view, 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. xlui 

his prospects looked well ; many of liis articles 
appeared in the leading [periodicals of the day, 
and though oftentimes anonymous, yet they af- 
forded the means of living respectably, and thus 
he worked away on biographical notices of poets, 
statesmen, and philoso[)hy, classics, and matters 
of general interest ; not being idle, as many sup- 
posed, but working secretly, and oftentimes, from 
an over-fastidiousness, erasing in a moment the 
labours of an entire day. 

On the 1st of July the poet became a father; 
the child was christened Thomas Telford, and his 
birth called forth feelings and language beautifully 
expressive of delight and tender affection. vSoon 
after this event, his health and spirits suffered 
much through an awkward contretemps with Mr. 
Doig, the Scotch bookseller. The difficulty, how- 
ever, was settled through friendly interference, 
yet the traces of harass and vexation remained 
behind, and change and country air was advised. 
After consultations with medical and other friends, 
Sydenham was selected as his future residence ; 
and to this place, at Michaelmas (1804), the 
family removed, and were received with open 
arms by many of the principal residents in the 
neiijhbourhood ; this became a sort of oasis in the 
desert, — here, to use Campbell's own language^ 
" 1 contrived to support my mother, my wife, and 
children ; life became tolerable to me, and even 
agreeable. I had always my town friends to 
come and partake of my humble fare of a Sunday ; 
and among my neighbours, I had an elegant sc<:i- 
ety among whom 1 counted sincere friends." 

Yet with this domestic comfort, he had his mo- 
ments of anxiety, especially as he was called upon 
to sustain alone the burden of supporting his 



Xliv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

mother and sisters. Up to this period he had 
shared the produce of his brain, his only farm, 
with his family ; he had allowed his mother an 
annuity of 70/., but now his .eldest brother, resi- 
dent in America, wrote to say, that the remit- 
tances he had for sometime made for his mother, 
must for the future cease on account of his own 
slender means. AVho can feel surprise at a young 
man, thus situated, becoming; nervous and agi- 
tated touching the future ? Two establishments 
to provide for, provisions dear, war prices pre- 
vailing in every department, — to use Campbell's 
own words — " I had never known in earnest the 
fear of poverty before, but now it came upon me 
like a ruthless fiend. If I were sentenced to live 
my life over again, and had the power of suppli- 
cating adversity to spare me, I would say, oh ! 
adversity take any other shape. To meet these 
pressing demands I obtained literary engagements 
both in prose and poetry, but a malady came over 
me which put all poetry, and even imaginative 
prose, out of the question. My anxiety to wake 
in the morning, in order to be at my literary la- 
bours, kept me awake all night, and from less to 
more I became a victim to the disease called coma 
vigil." At this time he received a " stab in the 
dark," in the shape of an anonymous letter from 
Glasgow, written in a female hand, purporting to 
emanate from a society called the " Glasgow 
Female Society," which upbraided him in bitter 
terms for neglect of a near relative, leaving that 
relative, as it declared, to poverty and distress. 
Possibly, it may be said, he was over-sensitive ; yet 
it was hard, after great exertion and sacrilices, that 
his conduct should be totally misrepresented, and 
reproaches be heaped upon him. Time, however, 



OF THOZVIAS CAMPBKLL. xlv 

heiiled them, and during the autumn we find liim 
translating foreign correspondence, contributing 
to the "Philosophical Magazine," the "Star" 
ne\vs[iaper, — atteuding dadj in Loi^don, — subject 
at times to occasional fits of depression and fear, 
yet not without his sunny moments. — lie had 
hopes of advancement, and was encouraged by 
persons of influence to believe that he would not 
be overlooked by a liberal ministry. 

About this time tiie first idea of the " Speci- 
mens of the British Poets," su2:u;ested itself to his 
mind, — a work which it has. been well said 
" established him on our library shelves as a prose 
writer, and is the test of his unrhymed, not unpo- 
etical works."* He wrote to Sir Walter Scott 
on the subject, stating his plan, and pro})osing to 
divide both labour and profit. Sir Walter was 
highly pleased, and left him authority to arrange 
the details ; but for a time the matter was broken 
off by a difference about terms with the book- 
sellers. 

In the month of June, 1805, his second son 
Alison was born. In the same year his circum- 
stances were rendered more easy by a pension of 
200/. per annum, conferred upon him by the 
Crown. Touching this mark of royal considera- 
tion, he left the following : — 

" My pension was given to me under Charles 
Fox's administration. So many of my friends in 
power expressed a desire to see that favour con- 
ferred upon me, that I could never discover the 
precise individual to whom I was indebted for it. 
Lord Minto's interest 1 knew was not wanting ; 
but I hoi)e I may say, without ingratitude to 

* This Work forms scveu vol nines in small 8vo. 181&. 



Xlvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

others, that I beheve Charles Fox and Lord 
Ilolhind would have bestowed the boon without 
any other intervention." The use Campbell made 
of this addition to his income, was this — the one 
halt' he reserved tor his own necessities, the other 
lie generously divided between his mother and 
sisters. 

Before the close of the year, the late Francis 
Horner, M. P., one of the poet's earliest friends, 
proposed to him to publish a new edition of his 
best poetical works by subscription, and volun- 
teered his services in tilling up the list. In writ- 
ing shortly after he had obtained the })oet's 
sanction, he said, " Very little exertion has been 
made, but we have got above 200/., of wdiich 60/. 
are from Oxford. I shall be very much disap- 
pointed if we do not put into the poet's purse 
more than 1000/." The result was as anticipated, 
and with an easy mind and resources recruited, 
he went on his way rejoicing. 

In the spring of 1806, Campbell met Mr. Fox 
at Lord Holland's at dinnc.'r ; both were pleased 
with each other, and at parting, the premier said, 
" Mr. Campbell, you must come and see me at 
Saint Anne's Hill, and there we shall talk more 
about these matters," (referring to the heroic cha- 
racters in Virgil, often much criticized as mono- 
tonous). Fox said privately in the ear of his 
nephew (Lord Holland), "I like Campbell, he 
is so right about Virgil ; " and there can be no 
question that the poet was singularly happy at all 
times in his classical allusions, as Sidney Smith 
once said, after listening to some of his remarks, 
*' What a vast field of literature that young man's 
mind has rolled over." 

The poem of " Gertrude of Wyoming," which 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. xlvii 

had for some time divided Campbell's thoughts 
with other literaiy cares, was cotnpleted in the 
oarly part of 180'J, and in March was shown to 
Mr. Alison and Lord Jeffrey, and was pronounced 
by them worthy of the writer's talent and acquired 
fame. 

Lord Jeffrey, in writing to Campbell, said, 
" There is great beauty, and great tenderness and 
fancy in the work, and I am sure it will be very 
popular. The latter part is exquisitely pathetic, and 
the whole touched with those soft and skyish tints of 
purity and truth which fall like enchantment on all 
minds that can make any thing of such matters." 

The public hailed with delight this new volume. 
Yet Campbell's joy was in a moment overcast and 
for a time destroyed by the sickening and death, 
by scarlet fever, of his son Alison, the child of 
many a fondly cherished hope ; for some time his 
heart seemed crushed ; the event sunk deep, and 
was never, even in after years, referred to without 
perceptible emotion ; for weeks he was incapable 
of" consecutive thought ; and it was at last only 
through the kind sympathy of Mr. Alison that he 
became tranquillized and able to resume his duties, 
and at last set down to prepare a course of lectures 
for delivery at the lloyal Institution. 

At the commencement of the year 1812, the 
poet's mother died at Edinburgh, at the age of 
seventy-six. Mac Artfur Stewart, Campbell's 
highland cousin, insisted upon defraying the entire 
cost of her funeral, which was attended by more 
than two hundred people. 

In the months of April and May, Campbell's 
Lectures on Poetry were delivered at the Royal 
Institution. They went ofi' with great eclat^ and 
obtained for him increased popularity, and a large 

D 



xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Bum of money. Shortly aftenvards he was pre- 
sented to the Princess of Wales by Lady Char- 
lotte Campbell, and subsequently received an 
invitation to a grand ball given by Her Kojal 
IJiglinessat Blacklieath, where he had ihe honour 
of dancing a reel with Royalty. 

Society exerted its claims upon Campbell vei'y 
much during this period. Madame de Stael, in 
the spring of 1813, visited England, and the poet 
had the gratification of meeting her frequently. In 
writing to a friend at this time, and referring to 
the Lectures then recently read at the Royal In- 
stitution, he says, " I spent a day or two with 
Madame de Stael this spring, and read her my 
lectures — one of them against lier own doctrines, 
in poetry. She battled hard with me, but was 
very good-natured and complimentary. Every 
now and then, she said, ' When you publish your 
lectures, they will make a great impression over 
all Europe ; I know nothing in English but 
Burke's writings so striking.' This she said be- 
fore Lord llarrowby and a large party ; and if 
her praise was flattery, she at least committed 
herself." 

During Campbell's residence at Ratisbon he 
had been kindly received by General Moreau, 
and presented to his young and beautiful wife. 
This lady, in 1813, visited London. In one of 
his letters, he says, " I have dined with Madame 
Moreau ; she did me the honour of talking almost 
exclusively to me. I sate between Madame de 
Stael and the lovely ' widow.' " In another letter 
he says, " I have spent a pleasant day at Lord 
Holland's ; we had the Mai'quis of Buckingham, 
Sergeant Best, (Lord Winfbrd,) Major Stanhope, 
Sir James JMackintosh, and a siuan at dinner. 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. xllX 

Lord Byron came in the evening. It was one of 
the best parties I ever saw." 

After a dinner ])arty at Holland House, Lord 
Byron, in writing of the poet, at this time, said, 
•' Campbell looks well, seems pleased, and dresses 
to sprucery ; a blue coat becomes him, so does a 
new wig, — he really looked as if Apollo had sent 
him a birth-day suit, or a wedding garment. He 
was lively and witty. We were standing in the 
ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the 
other room a vessel of some composition similar 
to that used in Catholic churches, and seeing us, 
he exclaimed, * Here is some incen.-^e for you ! * 
Campbell answered, ' Carry it to Lord Byron, 
he is used to it.' " 

About this time Lawrence took a sketch of 
Campbell. The gifted knight caused the head to 
be engraved at a cost of 40/., and having written 
his autograph on the proofs, presented them to 
the poet. 

In the early part of March, in this year, he 
visited Madame de Staiil, which procured him 
the acquaintance of many distinguished strangers. 

At the peace of 1814, on the fall of ^'apoleon, 
the capture of P;iris, arid tlie restoration of the 
Bourbons, in common with many others, Cam})bell 
was seized with a desire to visit Paris. Mrs. 
Siddons, John Kemble, the Baroness de Stael, 
had pressed him to join them, and on the 2oth of 
August he embarked for Dieppe, where he spent 
a week, and then proceeded to Rouen, where he 
rested two days, having been received with great 
kindness by Professor Vitahs, and subsequently 
elected member of the Royal Academy of that 
place. 

In announcing his arrival at Paris, Campbell 



1 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

says, " You may imagine with what feelings I 
caught the first sight of Paris, and passed under 
Montmartre, the scene of tlie last battle between 
the French and allies. It was evening when we 
entered Paris. Next morning I met Mrs. Sid- 
dons, walked about with her, and then visited the 
Louvre together. Oh ! how that immortal youth, 
Apollo, in all his splendour, majesty, and divinity, 
Hashed upon us from the end of the gallery ! 
What a torrent of ideas, classically associated with 
this godlike form, rushed upon me at this moment ! 
My heart palpitated, my eyes filled with tears — 
I was dumb with emotion. 

" Here are a hundred other splendid statues, — 
the Venus — the Menander — the Pericles — Cato 
and Portia, the father and daughter in an attitude 
of melting tenderness." 

He remained nearly two months in Paris and 
having in that time contracted many friendships, 
which animated his studies, and ripened his tastes, 
(Baron Ciivier and the elder Schlegel amongst 
the number), he embarked at Calais, and after 
narrowly escaping shipwreck fiom the ignorance of 
the person in charge of the vessel, who was neither 
captain nor seaman, and who ran the ship within 
a few hundred yards of the Shakespeare cliff, to 
the terror of the passengers, one of whom was 
washed overboard and drowned, he arrived at 
Dover, and thence proceeded to Sydenham. 

On the 25th of March, 1815, a welcome acces- 
sion of fortune befell him by the death of Mac 
Arthur Stewart, of Ascog, in whose will he was 
left one of the specific legatees ; the amount real- 
ized, after paying legacy duty and other expenses, 
was 4498/. lO*. (the interest of which is still en- 
joyed by the poet's s<^n). It is said that Mr, Mac 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. K 

Arthur Stewart, the testator, when givinjT instruc- 
tions for his settlemenf, observed that. " The poei 
ought to have a legacy, because he had been so kind 
as to give his rtiother sixty pounds yearly ovt of 
his pension^ It will be out of plaee here to say 
mueh on the relationship between Mr. Stewart 
and the poet's family, but it was the deliberate 
opinion of many distinguished counsel, that if 
Campbell's elder brother had b(;en aware of the 
law which rendered aliens to the crown of Great 
Britain incapable of inheriting entailed estates, 
or of holding land within the United Kingdom, 
and had made up his title as the nearest heir 
of tailzie, on the death of Mac Arthur Stewart, 
or before Mr. Campbell Stewart, his successor, 
obtained his act of naturalization, he might have 
been the proprietor of the old family estates, which 
were afterwards sold by the American heir for 
78,000/. 

The poet was now required at Edinburgh to 
look after this new acquisition, and on his arrival, 
after years of absence, was warmly greeted by 
many old friends, and by Lord Gillies, and Lord 
Alloway, two of Mr. jMac Arthur Stewart's exe- 
cutors. On leaving Edinburgh, he journeyed to 
Kinniel, the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Dugald 
Stewart, where he spent some "happy days;" 
thence he made a tour amongst his relatives in 
and near Glasgow. 

During the years 1816 and 1817, he was oc- 
cupied in pre|){iring for the press S})ecimens of 
the British Poets, which, preceded by an Essay 
on Poetry, was ])ublished by JMr. Murray. 

On the occasion of the lamented death of the 
Princess Charlotte, he wrote a monody, which 
was recited by Mrs. Bartley, at Drury Lane 



lii BIOGRAPniCAL SKETCH 

Theatre, for the benefit of the performers who, 
through this national calamity, had suffered se- 
verely. 

In 1818, Mr. Roscoe, on the part of the Royal 
Institution of Liverpool, concluded an arrange- 
ment with him for the delivery of twelve lec^tures 
on the poetry of Greece, for 150 guineas guaran- 
teed, and the subscriptions above that sum, and 
in due course these lectures were delivered and 
listened to Avitli a delight and enthusiasm long 
remembered by many who had the gratification 
of hearing them. The subscriptions increased 
the sum of loO guineas to upwards of 340/., and 
he received 100/. more for repeating them at Bir- 
mingham on liis way home to London. 

In 1820, Campbell, who had long wished to 
revisit Germany, was enabled to do so. On the 
24th of May, he concluded an aj;i'eement with 
Mr. Colburn, the publisher, for the editorship of 
the '' New Monthly," for three years certain, from 
the first of Januarj' ensuing, at 500/. per annum. 
This settled, he embarked for Holland, arrived at 
the port of Rotterdam, thence proceeded up the 
Rhine, and took up his quarters at Bonn, where 
he was most warmly received by the Schlegels, 
Professor Arndt, and other professors of the Uni- 
versity ; thence he made excursions into various 
districts boi'dei'ing the Rhine, and after a sojourn 
of some weeks, revisited Ratisbon, and his old 
as3'lum, the Scotch College, and then by the Dan- 
ube proceeded to Vienna, from which place, after 
an agreeable sojourn of" some months, he return- 
ed to Bonn, thence to England, and arrived in 
London on the 24th of November, and immedi- 
ately commenced arrangements for his editorial 
duties. He soon organized a staff, and with a full 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. liii 

conviction of the arduous undertaking in hand, he 
lent to it all his energies, and soon the " New 
INIonthly " exhibited fresh spirit and power, and 
for the ten years following, during which he con- 
tinued editor, was inferior to none of the maga- 
zines in public favour and estimation. 

Having bidden farevrell to Sydenham, which 
ho often said Avas the " greenest spot in memory's 
waste," he settled down permanently in London, 
projecting new efforts in the cause of literature. 

Now another domestic calamity befell him, an 
affliction which embittered many days, which 
otherwise, humanly spciiliing, would have been 
joyous and tranquil; his only son \v;is pronounced, 
either from hereditary taint or accident at school, 
incapable of prosecuting his studies with advan- 
tage ; eveiy thing was done that affection could 
devise, struggles were made, sacrifices gladly un- 
dergone, no pecuniary expense spared. It was 
only after many alarms that Campbell could be 
brought to believe that the symptoms manifested, 
were any thing more than the effects of temper, or 
mere physical derangement. 

In November, 1824, while his mind was still on 
the rack, alternating between hope and fear con- 
cerning his son's malady, a[)peared the poem of 
*' Theodric." Considerable popularity was antici- 
pated for it, which its author, howevei", did not 
live to see realized. While tiie work was in the 
press, in writing to his sister, he says, " I am 
sorry thei'c should be any great ex})ectation ex- 
cited about the poem, which is not of a nature to 
^laiify such expectation. It is truly a domestic 
and priviite story. I know very well what will 
be its late ; there will be an outcry and regret that 
there is nothing grand or romantic in it, and that 



liv ' BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

it is too humble and familiar. But I am prepared 
for this ; and I also know that when it recovers 
from the first buzz of such criticism, it will attain 
a steady popularity." 

The ibunding of the University of London is 
the next feature of Campbell's life which deserves 
notice ; the idea, as is well known, entirely origin- 
ated with him, and its realization he ever felt a 
source of satisfaction ; he looked upon the event, 
as he chose to say, as " the only important one in 
his life's little history." 

From the occasion of his visit to the Univer- 
sities of Bonn, Heidelberg, and Vienna, this sub- 
ject had occu])ied most of his thoughts, and from 
time to time, as opportunity served, he mentioned 
the subject to his friends. At length his plans 
became matured, and he was enabled, at a public 
meeting summoned for that purpose, to set forth 
his scheme in a manner which exhibited not only 
its feasibility, but at once won over the entire 
audience to cooperation and an unanimous deter- 
mination to carry out his suggestions. 

After the matter had progressed, and his views 
been explained, we find him (in a letter dated 
April 30th, 182.5,) thus referring to the subject: — 
" I have had a double quick time of employment 
since I saw you. In addition to the business of 
the magazine, I have had that of the University 
in a formidable shape. Brougham, who must 
have })opularity among Dissenters, propounded the 
matter to them. The delegates of almost all the 
dissenting bodies in London came to a conference 
at his summons. At the first meeting it was 
decided that there should be Theological chairs, 
partly Church of England, and partly Presbyte- 
rian. I had instructed all friends of the Univer- 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Iv 

sitj to resist any attempt to make us a Theolo- 
gical body ; but Brougham, Hume, and John Smith, 
came away from the first meeting saying, ' We 
think with you, that the introduction of divinity 
will be mischievous ; but we must yield to the 
Dissenters, with Irving at their head. We must 
have a Theological College.' I immediately waited 
on the Church of England men, who had already 
subscribed to the number of a hundred, and said 
to them, ' You see our paction is broken. I in- 
duced you to subscribe on the faith, that no ec- 
clesiastical interest, English or Scotch, should 
predominate in our scheme; but the Dissenters 
are rushing in. What do you say ? ' They — 
that is, the Church of England friends of the 
scheme — concerted that I should go commissioned 
from them, to say .at the conference, that either 
the Church of England must predominate, or else 
there must be no Church influence. I went with 
this commission ; I debated the matter with the 
Dissenters. Brougham, Hume, and John Smith, 
wdio had before deserted me, changed sides, and 
came over to me. Irving, and his party stoutly 
opposed me ; but I succeeded at last in gaining a 
complete victory. . . . The Dissenters themselves, I 
must say, behaved with extreme candour : they 
Avould not even suffer me to conclude my reply 
to Mr. Irving ; but exclaimed, ' Enough, enough. 
We are convinced, and concede the point, that the 
University shall be without religious rivalship.' 
The scene concluded amicably: Lord Alfhorp 
appeared on the part of the Church, and coin- 
cided in the decision. 

"A directory of the association for the scheme 
of the University is to meet in my house ou 
Monday, and every thing promises well. You 



hi BioGiiArniCAL sketch 

cannot conceive what anxiety I have undergone, 
^vhilst I imagined that tiie whole beautiful pro- 
ject was likely to be reduced to a mere Dissent- 
ers' University. But I have no more reason to 
be dissatisiied with the Dissenters than with the 
liundred Church of England Subscribers, whose 
interests I have done my best to support. I re- 
gard this as an eventful day in my lifeT 
A few days afterwards he thus writes : — 
" You will not grudge postage, to be told the 
agreeable news that IJrougham and Hume have 
reported their having had a conference with the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer and Lord Liver- 
pool ; and that they expressed themselves not un- 
favourable to tiie plan of a great College in Lon- 
don. Of course, as ministers had not been asked 
to pledge themselves to support us, but only to 
give us a general idea of their disposition, we 
could only get Avhat we sought, a general answer, 
but that being so favounxble, is much. I was glad 
also to hear that both Mr. llobinson and Lord 
Liverpool approved highly of no rival theological 
chairs having been agreed upon. Mr. Robinson 
even dilfered from Mr. Hume, when the latter 
said, ' Of course getting a charter is not to be 
thought of.' ' I beg your pardon,' said Mi". Rob- 
inson, ' I think it might be thought of; and it is 
by no means an impossible supposition.' 

"A copyof my scheme of education, but much 
mutilated and al)ridged, is submitted to their in- 
spection. I mean, however, to transmit to them 
my scheme in an entire shape, and to publish it 
afterwards as a pamphlet. Li the mean time, I 
must for a while retire and leave this business to 
other hands, now that it seems safe from any mis- 
chief which hitherto threatened it. I send you 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ivil 

this intelligence because it is an event to me, or at 
least a step in a promised event, which -will be, 
perhaps, the only important one in my life's little 
history." 

Subsequently he wrote: — "I rejoice to find 
the wisest Churchmen and the wisest Dissenters 
decidedly agreeing on this point, that we ought in 
this scheme religiously to avoid all chance of" reU- 
gioiis controversy. Mr. Irving said, that learning 
and science were the natural enemies of religion ; 
but if he said so, I paid him home for it very 
well. He came and shook hands witli me at the 
conchision." 

From this time, comparatively, all was plain 
sailing ; difficulties were mastered, and the project 
daily advanced in popularity. Campbell's scheme 
of education was founded on the basis of the ])lans 
resorted to both in British and Foreign Univer- 
sities, adapting the leading features of each to the 
advance of knowledge and the growing necessities 
of the age. In order to leave no system unnoticed, 
he determined to visit the University of J>erlin, 
and ascertain whether its system and currictdiim 
of education could with advantage be adopted in 
the London University. AVith this in view, on 
the lOtli of September, he embai'ked for Germany, 
and in eighty hours arrived in safety at Ham- 
burg. On the 21>t, he wrote from Berlin, " I 
have just been through the University. 1 have 
tak(in the dimensions of its rooms, and got some 
books which give an account of its institutions. 
I have also given my letter of introduction to the 
librarian (Dr. Spiker), who has given me the 
liberty of getting out any books I may wish for. 
I told you, in my letter from Hamburg, that I 
should go to Leipsic ; but I was soon after inform- 
ed that Berlin is a place much preferable for my 



Iviii BIOGRArillCAL SKETCH 

object, and superadds other agremens.^^ He after* 
wards remarked — " I have got every piece of in- 
formation respecting the University, and every 
book that I wished ibr. The hbrarian of the 
University in particuhir. Dr. Spiker, has sent me 
every book to my lodgings that I wanted to con- 
suU." ... "I sliould have felt many inconve- 
niences in many instances, had I not fortunately 
met with a couple of my countrymen, who are 
studying medicine here, although they have actu- 
ally entered the London College of Surgeons. — 
These young men make me feel very old, for they 
pay me such attention that 1 think I must appear 
in their eyes as venerable as Nestor ! They 
regulate their business for the day so as to keep 
themselves at my service — as they share it when- 
ever they can be useful ; so that 1 have no trouble 
but to eat and drmk and go about to see sights. 
From anybody such attention would excite a kind- 
ly feeling ; but from young men of most respect- 
able attainments and gentlemanlike manners, it is 
even flattering. I am not suffered to carry my 
own cloak or umbrella, nor to bring any thing ibr 
myself that I want ; and they offered even to 
write out a translation of some difficult German 
which I have had to get through to the amount of 
sixty very large-sized and small-i)rlnted quarto 
pages. As they are in very good circumstances, 
the offer was perfectly gratuitous ; but 1 thought 
it would be unfair to allow them to sacrifice so 
much time from their own proper studies. Final- 
ly, my devoted friends have taken out their places 
for Hamburg, in order to be present at the din- 
ner to be given me, whether it shall ])rove public 
or private." * 

* These gentlemen were Mr. William Coulson of London, 
and Mr. E. J. Spry of Truro. 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Hx 

In the early part of the year 1826, Campbell 
received a communication from Glasgow, to the 
effect that it was desired he should become Lord 
Hector for the year ensuing, and adding that he 
" had a strong party among the students of Glas- 
gow, who, if he accepted their insitation, would 
insure his election." After much hesitation, in 
consequence of domestic afflictions, he consented 
to allow himself to be put forward as a candidate. 
He was duly elected, by an immense majority, on 
the unanimous vote of the four nations. Tlie fact 
was formally notified by Dr. Macfarlane, the 
Principal of the College, on the 15th of November, 
1826. 

Campbell greatly enjoyed this sun-burst of 
j)opular favour — not the less so because he knew 
that some of the professors had set up, in opposi- 
tion to him, Mr. Canning and Sir Thomas Bris- 
bane, and, actuated by feelings of political distrust, 
had exerted their utmost influence to secure the 
first-named gentleman's election. In consequence 
of Campbell's delicate state of health, his installa- 
tion as Lord Rector did not take place until the 
12tii of April, when he delivered his inaugural 
address to an overflowing assembly of professors, 
students, and citizens, amongst -whom, though 
divided in political sentiments, there seemed, at 
the time, to exist but one feeling of gratification. 
On the 13th of April, he wrote, "I delivered my 
inaugural speech yesterday with complete success ; 
the enthusiasm was immense. I dined afterwards 

with the professors in the Faculty I find 

the rectorship will be no sinecure. I have sat 
four hours examining accounts, and hearing expla- 
nations from the Faculty, with Sir John Connel, 
the Dean of Faculty, my co-examiner and visitor, 



Ix BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH 

to whom the professors are anxious to rendet 
their accounts." 

As Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, 
Campbell exerted himself largely for the benefit 
of his constituents : the lectures, the funds, the 
library, the examinations, were inquired into ; 
alterations made ; grievances redressed ; and no 
pains were deemed too great to render assistance 
to the commissioners then acting under a commis- 
sion of inquiry on the affairs of the College. On 
the 14th of November, Campbell was reulected 
Lord Rector for the year 1828, without one dis- 
sentient voice. During his second year of office, 
his wife, Mrs. Campbell, died. She expired on 
the 10th of May, and on the 15th of the same 
month the poet thus writes :"...! am alone ; 
and I feel that I shall need to be some time alone — 
prostrated in heart before that Great Being who 
can alone forgive my errors ; and in addressing 
whom, alone, I can frame resolutions in my heart 
to make my remaining life as pure as nature's 
infirmities may permit a soul to be, that believes 
in His existence, and goodness and mercy. ..." 
As the poignancy of his grief subsided, we trace 
him in communication with Lord Aberdeen on the 
Commission of Liquiry, and doing his utmost to 
preserve the privileges of his students ; and so 
grateful were " his boys," as he loved to call them, 
that, in addition to a handsome present of silver 
plate made to him, they resolved to strain eveiy 
nerve to reelect him for the third time, — an ho- 
nour, the highest that could be conferred. No 
such instance of the kind had happened for a cen- 
tury previously. This honour, however, was not 
to be gained without a struggle : Sir Walter Scotl 
became his competitor — put forward, as supposed, 



OF THOMAS CAMPBFLL. Ixj 

by the Vice-Rector. Campbell, hov.evcr, was re- 
elected for the year 1829 ; and, during this year, 
by his exertions, permanent advantages were con- 
ceded to the objects of his care — not the least of 
these being a free access, at all reasonable times, 
to the Museum and College Library. 

The year 1830 was chiefly memorable to Camp- 
bell from the death of his friend, Sir Thomas 
Lawrence,- — his declining the editorship of the 
" New Monthly Magazine," — and active exei'tions 
made for the Poles, in wliose belialf, in the year 
followin":, he oruanized " the Association of the 
Friends of Poland." 

During the years 1831-2, he became editor of 
the " Metropolitan Magazine." 

In the month of July, 1832, Campbell was in- 
vited to come forward as a candidate for the repre- 
sentation of a Scotcli constituency in the House 
of Commons ; but, after giving the subject full 
deliberation, he declined t!ie honour (though his 
return seems to have been almost certain) ; and 
the grounds of his refusal seem to have rested on 
the mnltiplicity of engagements, among which 
the Polish Association seemed paramount. Tlie 
amount of labour he underwent, and the money 
be spent on behalf of this oppressed people, ex- 
ceeded far what either his social or pecuniary 
position justiiied. 

In 1834, Campbell revisited Paris, where he 
was eagerly welcomed by many of tlie exiles from 
I'oland. Thence he proceeded to Algiers, whence 
tlie letters were written -which appeared in the 
pages of the " New Monthly Magazine." He 
returned to Great Britain in 1835 rul Paris, 
wliere he was presented to the late ex-King Louis 
Phili])pe, and thence, by way of Scotland, staying 



Xll 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



at Edinburgh and Brougham Hall on the road, 
he arrived in London. 

During the following years, he was engaged in 
a variety of subjects, which brought him money 
rather than fame ; among these, the Life of Mrs. 
Siddons and the Life of Petrarch, and lent his 
name editorially to some reprints. But the " oil was 
now seen to bui-n lower and lower in the lamp, and 
the social wit waxed faint, or moved perplexedly 
among old recollections, where it had formerly 
struck out bright creations. It was a sorrowful 
thing to see him gliding about like a shadow, — to 
hear that his health com]ielled liim to retreat more 
and more from the world he had once so adorned." 
On the 2Gth June, 1838, he ^vas presented at Court 
by the late Duke of Argyie, at the first levee after 
her IMajesty's accession, the queen having pre- 
viously accepted from him the present of his 
poems, and afterwards sent him her picture. The 
effect of the crowd and detention for about two 
hours among at least a thousand persons, brought 
on a fever, which, however, was overcome under 
medicine and repose. 

In the winter of 1840, Campbell took, on lease, 
a house, — No. 8, Victoria Square, Pimlico, — 
where he proposed to spend the autumn of his 
days. Having now arrived at the age of sixty- 
three, and experienced during preceding years the 
misery of repeated changes of abode, and the dis- 
comfort of a solitary life, he determined upon real- 
izing a long-cherished wish — to adopt a favorite 
niece (Mary Campbell) whom he had affectionate- 
ly noticed from her infancy — the youngest daugh- 
ter of his brother, Alexander Campbell, late of 
Glasgow, deceased. After obtaining her mother's 
consent, he wrote thus : " She need not come to 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ixiii 

London till the middle of May, and then, in my 
new house, she shall be as welcome as the flowers 
of that month. It will be an amusement to me to 
instruct her mind whenever she chooses. But 
assure her, from me, that she need not fear being 
set to learn more than she really wishes ; and she 
must not greet at parting from her mother, for I 
will send her back on a visit to you as often as 
she likes." 

In 1842, appeared " The Pilgrim of Glencoe," 
accompanied by a number of minor pieces ; but 
the chief poem added nothing to his reputation, 
and its reception was not by any means cheering : 
the smaller productions were welcomed kindly as 
ever. Yet he was greatly disappointed. He had 
heard it said, a new poem by him was like a bill 
at sight. Now he began to realize the truth that 
old age was fast creeping upon him. Occasionally 
sunny days brightened his decline. He became 
restless, and somewhat careless in dress ; he began 
to indulge much in change of scene ; Dinan, on 
the Continent, Cheltenham, in England, and other 
places, were all tried, one after the other ; and at 
last he determined to dispose of the lease of his 
house in London and become a denizen of Bou- 
logne-sur-Mer, calculating that he would live there 
in greater seclusion and at a cheaper cost than in 
England. 

One of the chief indications of decay was an 
unfounded dread of poverty. After the hrst blush 
of life had passed, he had been far more happy in 
liis pecuniary circumstances than most poets or 
literary men could boast ; for at this time, (1842), 
and for many years previously, his income was 
little less than 1100/. per annum — the interest 
on the legacy of 4500Z. from the Ascog estates 



Ixiv 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



produced 200?. ; his pension 200/. ; the profits of 
his works, between GOO/, and 700/; and, in 1843, 
on the death of his surviving sister, he received 
a sum of 800/., the greater part of which, how- 
ever, he sunk in an annuity, receiving for his 
" investment" only one pecuniary payment. 

In June, 1843, a farewell party (as it turned 
out) was given to all his friends then in town, and 
in the month following he left his home never 
to return to it, except for a few days in order to 
dispose, at all hazards, of his lease in the house. 
On the 15th of July, he arrived at Boulogne, and 
was, by the kind assistance of Mr. Hamilton, the 
British consul, soon located with his niece at the 
Hotel de Bourgogne, a quiet and well-regulated 
hotel, in the upper town. Here, after a month's 
residence, he took a house in the Haute Ville, — 5, 
Rue Petit St. Jean. For some months he seemed 
contented and benefited by the change of air and 
scene, but the house lay high and exposed, and 
in November, when the cold weather set in, a 
feeling of indolence and torpor seemed (as he 
expressed it) to grow upon him ; but this evi- 
denced not merely the effect of the change of season, 
but the progress of disease — an affection of the 
liver ; yet, now and then, though expressing a 
belief that the lease of life had almost expired, he 
would rally — be himself again — and tell his plans 
for the future. Though in seclusion and retire- 
ment, he purposed to show to the world he was 
not idle, and so he made efforts and strove until 
wearied nature told the plain but trying truth that 
his days were numbered. At times, when the wea- 
ther was inviting, attended by his affectionate 
niece, he would walk a little way down the hill 
leading from the Haute Ville to the Bas Ville. 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL IxV 

His favourite haunt about mid-day was the ram« 
parls upon which his house abutted, but, at last, 
when winter set in chill and rigorous, he was fain 
to retire to his easy chair and a warm corner in 
his library. Here, in writing a work, entitled 
" Lectures on Classical Geography," intended to 
have been dedicated to his niece, — in reading the 
journals of the day, — in listening to some of his 
old favourite pieces of music, — the long evenings 
passed onwards. The new year arrived, but open- 
ed upon the sick man with little of a hopeful cha- 
racter. He was oppressed by a constant sensation 
of cold. He now began to drop all correspond- 
ence, and to decline seeing any of the many kind 
friends who called to proffer their services. As 
spring came on, and the weather grew gradually 
more mild and settled, he revived for a few weeks ; 
but this was succeeded by a perceptible, though 
gradual, decay of strength. Towards the end of 
May, he became entirely confined to his bed, and 
the English physician (Dr. Allatt), who had been 
constant in his attendance, held out no hopes of 
ultimate recovery. 

About three weeks prior to his death, he ex- 
pressed a conviction that he would never again 
leave his bed alive ; his niece endeavoured to cheer 
his spirits and to infuse hope, that if God so willed 
it, with care, he might live for many years ; to 
this he answered, '' For your sake I had wished 
I might live for some years longier, for you are 
now the only tie I have to this world ; indeed, 
you are the dearest object I have on earth." To 
which Miss Campbell replied, "Oh! that is a 
poetical Jiighty lie replied, " Nay, my dear, it is 
a prosaic truth 1 " 

Every exertion that affectionate tenderness, or 



Ixvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

woman's love, could devise, was lavished upon 
him ; he was generally alive to all that passed ; 
and thoup;h his suflerhigs at times were acute, no 
expressions of impatience ever escaped his lips. 

About ten days before his dissolution, Dr. Beat- 
tie came from England to visit his old friend, and 
on his part zealously aided Miss Campbell in her 
labour of love, exerting to the utmost all his well- 
known professional skill and kindly sympathies, 
in striving to soothe the poet's dying pillow. As 
opportunity served, and the attention of the suf- 
ferer could be aroused, passages from the Scrip- 
tures, particularly from the Gospels and Epistles, 
were read, and his attention directed to the as- 
surance of hope to the faithful believer through 
the Saviour's atonement. On several occasions 
he expressed to his niece a vivid sense of the 
beauty and sublimity of the Lil iv, particularly 
the Old Testament, and shed tears over the glow- 
ing language and poetic imagery of the sweet 
Psalmist of Israel. 

On the 12th of June he became at times insen- 
sible, but towards evening rallied a little, and, ad- 
dressing his niece, who was standing over his 
couch, said, " Come, let us sing praises to Christ ; " 
then pointing to the bed-side, he added, "sit here." 
Miss Campbell said, "Shall I pray for you?" 
" Oh ! yes," he replied, " let us pray for one ano- 
ther." 

During the two following days he continued 
almost entirely in a state of stupor, occasionally 
naming friends long absent, and making observa- 
tions, which from their total irrelevancy to all that 
was passing in his room, showed that his mind 
was no longer under his own control. 

On the 15th instant, at a quarter past four in 



OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ixvii 

tte afternoon, he expired without the slightest 
perceptible struggle ; indeed the sudden change 
of his countenance was the first indication that 
the spirit of the Bard of Hope had Hed. 

When the arrangements, required by the laws 
of France in cases of death, had been completed 
with the Commissaire de Police and his oilicials, 
the body was laid for several days in the drawing- 
room, crowned with a wreath of laurel, during 
which period it was visited by many strangers, 
English and French, and many acquaintances and 
friends of the deceased, all anxious to testify their 
kindly sympathies and take a last look at him who 
had so often cheered and elevated their hearts. 
After this manifestation of afiection to his memory, 
the corpse was consigned to a coffin of lead, and 
having been duly sealed with the town seal of 
Boulogne, was deposited in an outer collin of 
wood, upon the lid of which was inscribed, on a 
brass plate the following inscription : — 

THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL.D., 

AUTHOR OF THE "PLEASUKES OF HOPE," 

DIED JUNE XV., MDCCCXLIV. 

AGED 67. 

On the 27th of June, the body was embarked 
at midnight for London, and on its arrival in the 
metropolis was conveyed to the undertaker's house 
— thence to a chapel near the Jerusalem Cham- 
ber, Westminster Abbey, in which it remained 
until the 3d of July, the day of the funeral ; a 
day well remembered by the many who witnessed 
the solemn ceremonial, — men of all gradations of 
rank, (not omitting the head of his clan, the Duke 
of Argyle, and the premier, the late lamented Sir 
Eobert Peel) ; they all vied with each other in 



Ixviii 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



paying a last tribute of respect to the merits of 
this admired genius. 

Since Campbell's decease, a full-length statue, 
by Mr. W. C. Marshall, has been finished, and 
is proposed to be erected in Poets' Corner, West- 
minster Abbey. 

We close this short sketch of the career of this 
gifted individual, by a few quotations from his own 
words at the age of sixty-one, recorded in Reini' 
niscences of the Poet hy Members of his Family, 
He spoke frequently, if led to it, of his feelings 
while writing his poems. When he wrote the 
" Pleasures of Hope," fame, he said, was every 
thing in the world to him : if any one had fore- 
told to him then, how indifferent he would be now 
to fame and public opinion, he would have scouted 
the idea. He said he hoped he really did feel, 
with regard to his posthumous fame, that he left 
it, as well as all else about himself, to the mercy 
of God. " I believe when I am gone, justice will 
be done to me in this way — that I was a pure 
writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my 
time of life, to be able to look back and feel that 
I have not written one Une against religion or 
virtue." 

Another time, speaking of the insignificance 
which in one sense posthumous fame must have, 
he said, " When I think of the existence which 
shall commence when the stone is laid above my 
head, — when I think of the momentous realities 
of that time, and of the awfulness of the account 
I shall have to give of myself, how can literary 
fame appear to me but as — nothing. Who will 
think of it then ? If, at death, we enter on a new 
state of eternity, of what interest beyond his 
present life can a man's literary fame be to 



OP THOMAS CAMPBELL. Ixix 

him ? Of none — when he thinks most solemnlj 
about it." — 

" Farewell ! if 'tis the mnse's boast^to crown 
AVith deathless fame, and virtue meets renown; 
^Vllile jonder orbs their measured dance pursue, 
The wise shall praise, the good shall copy YOU." 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

PABT THE FIRST. 



ANALYSIS OF PART I. 

The Poem opens with a comparison between the beauty of 
remote objects in a hmdscape, and those ideal scenes of 
felicity which the imagination delights to contemplate — tiie 
influence of anticiiiation upon the other passions is next 
delineated — an allusion is made to the well-known ficlii>n ui 
Pagan tradition, that, whci all the guardian deities of man 
kiiid abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind — tho 
consolations of this passion in situations of danger and dis 
tre5S— the seaman on his watch — the soldier marching into 
battle — allusion to the interesting adventures of B^-ron. 

The inspn-ation of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, 
whether in the department of science, or of taste — domestic 
felicity, hoAv intimately connected with A'iews of future 
happiness — picture of a mother watching her infant when 
asleep — pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wan- 
derer. 

From the consolations of individual misery a transition is 
made to prospects of political improvement in the future 
state of society — the wide field that is yet oj)en for the pro- 
gress of humanizing arts among imcivilized nations — from 
these views of amelioration of society, and tiie extension of 
liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by a 
melancholy contrast of ideas, we are led to reflect upon the 
hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in tluir 
struggles for independence — description of the capture of 
Warsaw, of the last contest of the oppressors and the op- 
pressed, and the massacre of the Polish patriots at the bridge 
of Prague — apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of hu- 
m.nn improvement — the wrongs of Africa — the barbarous poli- 
cy of Europeans in India — prophecy in the Hindoo mythology 
of the expected descent of the Deity to redress the miseries 
of their race, and to take vengeancie on the violators of justice 
and mercy. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

PART I. 

At Gumoier eve, when Heaven's etiiereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering liills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling 

near ? — 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene 
More pleasing seem? th:ni nil the past hath been, 
And every form, that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye 
To pierce the shades of dim futurity? 
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, 
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? 
Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man — 
Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; 
Or, if she hold an image to the view, 
'Tis Natui'e pictured too severely true. 



4 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

With thee, sweet Hope ! resides the heavenly 

That pours remotest rapture on tlic sight: 
Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, 
That calls each slumbering passion into play. 
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band, 
On tiptoe watching, start at thy command, 
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, 
To Pleasure's path or Glory's bright career. 

Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, 
When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay ; 
When every form of death, and every woe, 
Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; 
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War 
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car; 
When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain, 
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; 
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind. 
But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind. 

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare 
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air 
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, 
Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man. 

Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe; 
Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour. 
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower 
There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing. 
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits 
bring! 



rLEA5LK::5 OF UOl'E. O 

What viewless forms tli' JEolian organ i)lay, 
And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought 

away. 
Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore 
Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest 

shore ! 
Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields 
His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields ; 
Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, 
Where Andes, giant of the western star, 
With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, 
Loolis from his throne of clouds o'er half the 

world ! 
Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer 

smiles. 
On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles : 
Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow. 
From wastes that slumber in eternal snow ; 
And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar, 
The wolf's lono; howl from Oonalaska's shore. 
Poor chikl of danger, nursling of the storm, 
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! 
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay; 
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. 

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, 
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep ; 
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, 
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul; 
His native hills that rise in happier climes. 
The grot that heard his song of other times, 



6 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, 
His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale, 
Ruch on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, 
Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind \ 
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, 
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; 
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear I 
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! 
Wliile, long neglected, but at length caress'd, 
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, 
Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) 
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. 

Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour, 
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; 
To thee the h^art its trembling homage yields, 
On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields. 
When front to front the banner'd hosts combine. 
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. 
When all is still on Death's devoted soil. 
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil ! 
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high 
The dauntless brow and spirit-speaking eye, 
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, 
And hears thy stormy music in the drum ! 

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
The hardy Byron to his native shore — 
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep 
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 
'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, 
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock, 



PLEAyCRES OF ROPE. * 

To wake each joyless morn and search again 
The famish'd haunts of solitary men ; 
AVhose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
Know not a trace of Nature but the form ; 
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued. 
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, 
Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar 
The moon's pale planet and the northern star, 
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; 
Till, led by thee o'er many a cHfF sublime, 
He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 
A home to rest, a shelter to defend. 
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! 

Congenial Hope ! thy passion-kindling power, 
How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled 

hour ! 
On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, 
I see thee 'light and wave thy golden wand. 

"Go, child of Heaven! (thy winged words 
proclaim) 
'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame ! 
Lo! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, 
Scans the wide world, and numbers every star! 
"Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply. 
And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye 
Yes, thou shall mark, with magic art profound, 
The speed of light, the circling march of sound; 
With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, 
Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. 



8 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

" The SAvedish sage admires, in yonder bowers, 
His winged insects, and his rosy flowers ; 
Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train, 
With sounding horn, and counts them on the 

plain — 
So once, at Heaven*s command, the wanderers 

came 
To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. 

" Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime, 
Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime ; 
Calm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye 
The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, 
Admiring Plato, on his spotless page. 
Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage : 
* Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span 
The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man ?' 
" Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lighten'd 

eye 
To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh : 
Hark ! from bright spires that gild the Delphian 

height. 
From streams that wander in eternal li^rht. 
Ranged on their hill, Harraonia's daughters 

swell 
The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ; 
Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow, 
And Pythia's awful organ peals below. 

" Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall 

shed 
Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head; 



TLEASUKES OF HOPE. 3 

Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, 
And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mmd. 
I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, 
And talk with spirits on the midnight heath ; 
Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, 
And ask each blood-stain'd form his earthly name ; 
Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, 
And read the trembling world the tales of hell. 

" When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, 
Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, 
And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ 
Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy ; 
A milder mood the goddess shall recall. 
And soft as dew thy tones of music fall ; 
While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart 
A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart — 
Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, 
And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain. 

"Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred 
deem. 
And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream ; 
To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile — 
For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile ; — 
On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, 
And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief? 

" Yes ; to thy tongue shall seraph words be 
given, 
And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven ; 
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, 
That never mused on sorrow but its own, 



10 PLEASURES OF IIOTE. 

Unlocks a generous store at tliy command, 
Like Horeb's rocks beneath the propliet's hand. 
The livmg lumber of his kindred earth, 
Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth, 
Feels thy dread power another heart afford, 
AVhose passion-touch'd harmonious strings accord 
True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan ; 
And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. 
" Bright as tlie pillar rose at Heaven's com- 
mand. 
When Israel march'd along the desert land. 
Blazed through the night on lonelj wilds afar, 
And told the path — a never-setting star : 
So, heavenly Genius., in thy course divine, 
Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine." 

Propitious Power ! when rankling cares an- 
noy 
The sacred home of Hymenean joy ; 
When doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd dell, 
The w^edded pair of love and virtue dwell, 
Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, 
Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the 

same — 
Oh, there, pro2:)hetic Hope ! thy smile bestow. 
And chase the pangs that worth should never 

know — 
There, as the parent deals his scanty store 
To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, 
Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage 
Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. 



PLliASURES OF 1101'!". 11 

What though for him no ITybla sweets distil. 
Nor bloomy vines wave purple on tlie hill ; 
Tell, that when silent years have pass'd away, 
That when his eye grows dim, his tresses gray, 
These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, 
And deck with fairer flowers his little field, 
And call from Heaven propitious dews to breatho 
Arcadian beauty on the barren heath ; 
Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears 
The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, 
Health shall prolong to many'a festive hour 
The social pleasures of his humble bower. 

Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, 
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; 
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive 

eyes, 
And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
'" Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy ; 
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; 
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine ; 
Bright as his manly sire the son shall be 
In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he ! 
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last. 
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — 
"With many a smile my solitude repay. 
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 

"And say, when sumraon'd from the world and 
thee, 
I lay my head beneath the willow tree, 



12 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Wilt thou, sweet mourner I at my stone appear, 
And soothe mj parted spirit lingering near? 
Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed 
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed ; 
With aching temples on thy hand reclined, 
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, 
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low 
And think on all my love, and all my woe?" 

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 
Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim 
A mother's ear by that endearing name ; 
Soon as the playful innocent can prove 
A tear of pity, or a smile of love, 
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, 
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer. 
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; 
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while. 
At every artless tear, and every smile ; 
How glows the joyous parent to descry 
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! 

Where is the troubled heart consign'd to share 
Tumultuous toils, or sohtary care, 
Unblest by visionary thougiits that stray 
To count the joys of Fortune's better day ! 
Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume 
The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom, 
A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, 
Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board ; 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 13 

Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, 
And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe. 

Chide not his peace, proud Reason; nor de- 
stroy 
The sliadowj forms of uncreated joy, 
That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour 
Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. 
Hark ! the wild maniac sings, to chide the 

gale 
That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail ; 
She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore, 
Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that 

bore, 
Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, 
Clasj)'d her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening 

gaze : 
Poor widow'd wretch ! 'twas there she wept in 

vain, 
Till Memory fled her agonizing brain ; — 
But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, 
Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow ; 
Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam. 
And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. 
Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight 

sky, 

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, 
Piled on the steep, her blazing fiigots burn 
To hail the bark that never can return ; 
And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep 
That constant love can linger on the deep. 



14 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

And, mark the wretch, whose wanderhigs never 
knew 
The world's regard, that soothes, though half un- 
true ; 
Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, 
But found not pity when it err'd no more. 
Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye 
Th' unfeeling proud one looks — and passes by, 
Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam, 
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home — 
Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray 
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, 
Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen 
The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green, 
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while— 
Oh ! that for me some home like this would smile, 
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form 
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm ! 
There should my hand no stinted boon assign 
To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine ! — 
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care. 
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's 
prayer. 
Hope ! when I mourn, with sympathizing 
mind. 
The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, 
Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see 
The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; 
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan, 
And h^arn the future by the past of man. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 15 

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of 
Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ; 
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore. 
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along, 
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song. 
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, 
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, 
There shall the flocks on tliymy pasture stray, 
And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day ; 
Each wandering genius of the lonely glen 
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, 
And silent watch, on woodland heights around. 
The village curfew as it tolls profound. 

In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, 
That bathe tlie rocks in blood, and veil the sun. 
Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane. 
Wild Obi flies — the veil is rent in twain. 

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains 
roam. 
Truth. Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; 
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines. 
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, 
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there. 
And light the dreadful features of despair. — 
Hark ! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, 
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd ! 
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, 
And, as the slave departs, the man returns. 



16 PLEASURKS OF HOPE. 

Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern 

wars 
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet 

horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wratli to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- 
vey'd. 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,— 
Oh ! Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country 

save ! — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high I 
And swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! 

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death, — the watch-word and reply ; 
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm. 
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm I — 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew ;— * 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 17 

Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercj in her woe ! 
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd 

spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high ca- 
reer ; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shriek'd — as Kosciusko fell! 
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage 
there, 
Tumultuous INIuixler shook the midnight air — 
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, 
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; 
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, 
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 
Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder 

fall, 
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! 
Earth shook — red meteors flash'd along the sky. 
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry ! 
Oh ! righteous Heaven ; ere Freedom found a 
grave, 
"Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 
"Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy 

rod, 
That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; 
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car 
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar? 
2 



18 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host 
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast; 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! 
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
And make her arm puissant as your own ! 
Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return 
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannock- 
burn ! 

Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see 
That man hath yet a soul — and dare be free ! 
A little while, along thy saddening plains, 
The starless night of Desolation reigns ; 
Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, 
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven I 
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd, 
Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world ! 

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark. 
And hate the light — ^because your deeds are 

dark ; 
Ye that expanding truth invidious view, 
And think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue ; 
Perhaps your little hands presume to span 
The march of Genius and the powers of man ; 
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine, 
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine : — 



I'LEASURKS OF HOPE. 19 

" Here shall thy trinmpli, Genius, cease, and here 
Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career.** 

Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ; 
In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring : 
What ! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, 
-Arrest the rolling world, or cliain the deep? 
No! — the wild wave contemns your sceptred 

hand : 
It roll'd not back when Canute gave command ! 

Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? 
Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow ? 
Shall war's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd ? 
Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the 

world ? 
"What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied? 
Why then hath Plato lived — or Sidney died ? 

Ye fond adorers of departed fame. 
Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name ! 
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire 
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre! 
Rapt in historic ardour, wlio adore 
Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore, 
Where Valour tuned, amidst her chosen throng, 
The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song; 
Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms 
Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms ! 
See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, 
And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! 
Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, 
Hath Valour left the world — to live no more ? 



20 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, 
And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye? 
Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, 
Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls ? 
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, 
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm? 

Yes ! in that generous cause, for ever strong, 
The patriot's virtue and the poet's song. 
Still, as the tide of ages rolls away, 
Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay. 

Yes ! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may 
trust, 
That slumber yet in uncreated dust, 
Ordain'd to fire th' adoring sons of earth. 
With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; 
Ordain'd to light, with intellectual day. 
The mazy wheels of nature as they play. 
Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow, 
And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. 

And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan 
Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man. 
When shall the world call down, to cleanse her 

shame, 
That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — 
That friend of Nature, wdiose avenging hands 
Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands ? 
Who, sternly marking on his native soil 
The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, 
Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see 
Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free I 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 21 

Yet, yet, degraded men ! tli' expected day 
That breaks your bitter cup, is far away ; 
Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to 

bleed. 
And holy men give Scripture for the deed ; 
Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save 
A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! — 

Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand 
Had heaved the floods, and fix'd the trembling 

land, 
Wlien life sprang startling at thy plastic call, Y 
Endless her forms, and man the lord of all ! 
Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee. 
To wear eternal chains and bow the knee ? 
"Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil. 
Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil ; 
Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold ? 
No ! — Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould ! 
She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge. 
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge I 
No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, 
To call upon his country's name, and weep ! — 

Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain. 
The quiver'd chief ol' Congo loved to reign ; 
With fires proportion'd to his native sky. 
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; 
Scour'd with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, 
The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own ! 
Or led the combat, bold without a plan. 
An artless savage, but a fearless man I 



22 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

The plunderer came ! — alas ! no glory smiles 
For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian Isles ; 
For ever fall'n ! no son of Nature now, 
With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow ! 
Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, 
And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, 
Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore 
To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore ! 

The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell 
His guardian angel took a last farewell ! 
That funeral dir2;e to darkness hath resi":n'd 
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! 
Poor fetter'd man ! I hear thee Avhispering low 
Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of "Woe, 
Friendless thy heart; and cansL thou harbour 

there 
A wish but death — a passion but despair ? 

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, 
Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral 

fires ! 
So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh ! 
So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! 

But not to Libya's barren climes alone, 
To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone. 
Belong the wretched heart and liaggard eye, 
Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh ! — 
Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! 
Prolific fields ! dominions of the sun ! 
How long your tribes have trembled and obey'dl 
How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd, 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 23 

Whose marsliaird hosts, the lions of the plain, 
From Scjthia's northern mountains to the main, 
Raged o'er jour plunder'd shrines and altars bare, 
'With blazing torch and gory scymetar, — 
Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale, 
And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! 
Y(;t could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, 
When Brama's children perish'd for his name ; 
The martyr smiled beneath avenging power. 
And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! 

When Europe sought your subject realms to 
gain, 
And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main. 
Taught her proud barks tlie winding way to shape, 
And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; 
Children of Brama ! then was Mercy nigh 
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ? 
Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save. 
When freeborn Britons cross'd the Indian wave? 
Ah, no ! — to more than Rome's ambition true, 
The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you ! 
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began, 
And, in the march of nations, led the vah ! 

Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone. 
And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, 
Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise 
The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; 
Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming 

store. 
While famish'd nations died along the shore: 



24 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear 
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair; 
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, 
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame ! 

But hark ! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels, 
From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! 
Of India's fete her guardian spirits tell, 
Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell. 
And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, 
Iloll on the azure paths of every wind. 

" Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say,) 
Revolving ages bring the bitter day. 
When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, 
And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ; 
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning 

hurl'd 
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ; 
Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant 

frame. 
Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ; 
Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain — 
But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again ! 
He comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky 
With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on 

high. 
Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form. 
Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! 
Wide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms 

glow 
Like summer suns and li^ht the world below I 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 25 

Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed, 
Are shook ; and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! 

" To pour redress on Indians injured realm, 
The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; 
To chase destruction from her plundered shore 
With arts and arms that triumph'd once before, 
The tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven's command 
Shall Seriswattee wave her hallow'd wand ! 
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, 
Shall bless Avith joy their own propitious clime ! — 
Come, Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restore! 
Love ! — Mercy ! — Wisdom ! — rule for evermore I ** 



1 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

PABT THE SECOND. 



ANALYSIS OF PART II. 

Apostrophe to the power of Love — its intimate connection 
witli generous and social Sensibility — allusionto that beauti- 
ful passage in the beginning of the Book of Genesis, which 
represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till 
love was superadded to its other blessings — the dreams of 
future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, 
when Hope is animated by refined attachment — this disposi- 
tion to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that 
is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the 
skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the 
picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful 
features he could find — a summer and winter evening de- 
scribed, as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of one 
who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and 
retirement. 

Hope and Imagination inseparable agents — even in those 
contemplative moments when our imagination wanders be- 
yond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unat- 
tended with an impression that we shall some day have a 
wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of 
the pai'tial glimpse we now enjoy. 

The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the con- 
cluding topic of the poem — the predominance of a belief in a 
future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution — the 
baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us 
from such comforts — allusion to the fate of a suicide — episode 
of Conrad and Ellenore — conclusion. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

PART n. 

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known 
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? 
\yho hath not paused while Beauty's pensive 

eye 
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh ? 
"Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, 
The power of grace, the magic of a name ? 

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, 
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow-; 
There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, 
In self-adoring pride securely mail'd : — 
But, triumph not, ye peace-enamour'd few ! 
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! 
For you no fancy consecrates the scene 
"Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between ; 
*Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; 
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! 

"Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed. 
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? 
No ; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, 
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy ! 
And say, without our hopes, without our fears, 
Without the home that plighted love endears, 



30 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Without the smile from partial beauty won, 
Oh ! what were man ? — a world without a sun. 

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, 
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! 
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there. 
At starry midnight charm'd the silent air ; 
In vain the wild-bird caroU'd on the steep, 
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ; 
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, 
Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd ; 
The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, 
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; — 
Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day. 
And still the stranger wist not where to stray. 
The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! 
And man, the hermit, sigh'd — till woman smiled ! 

True, the sad power to generous hearts may 
Delirious anguish on his fiery wing ; [bring 

Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand. 
By wealthless lot, or pitiless command : 
Or doom'd to gaze on beauties that adorn 
The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn ; 
While Memory watches o'er the sad review 
Of joys that faded like the morning dew ; 
Peace may depart — and life and nature seem 
A barren path, a wildness, and a dream I 

But can the noble mind for ever brood, 
The willing victim of a weary mood. 
On heartless cares that squander life away, 
And cloud young Genius brightening into day ?— • 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 31 

Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray'd 

The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! — 

If Hope's creative spirit cannot raise 

One trophy sacred to thy future days, 

Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy 

shrine, 
Of hopeless love to murmur and repine ! 
But, should a sigh of milder mood express 
Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, 
Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour 
Her bhssful visions on thy pensive hour. 
No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page, 
No fears but such as fancy can assuage ; [miss 
Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may 
The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, 
(For love pursues an ever-devious race, 
True to the winding lineaments of grace ;) 
Yet still may Hope her talisman employ 
To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, 
And all her kindred energies impart 
That burn the brightest in the purest heart. 

When first the Rhodian's mimic art array'd 
The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, 
The happy master mingled on his piece 
Each look that charm'd him in the fair of Greece. 
To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace 
From every fmer form and sweeter face ; 
And as he sojoum'd on the iEgean isles, 
Woo'd all their love, and treasured all their 
smiles ; 



32 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and refined. 
And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when com- 
bined ! 
Love on the picture smiled ! Expression pour'd 
Her mingling spirit there — and Greece adored! 

So thy fair hand, enamour'd Fancy ! gleans 
The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; 
Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought 
Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, 
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, 
"With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers ! 
Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd way, 
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ! 
Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, 
With hermit steps to wander and adore ! 
There shall he love, when genial morn appears, 
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, 
To watch the brightening roses of the sky. 
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye ! — 
And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep, 
The woods and waves, and murmuring winds 

asleep. 
When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail, 
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, 
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell 
Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, 
Wliere mouldering piles and forests intervene, 
Mingling with darker tints the living green ; 
No circling hills his ravish'd eye to bound, 
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 33 

The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly 
burns — 
And down the vale his sober step returns ; 
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey 
The still sweet fall of music far away; 
And oft he lingers from his home awhile 
To watch the dying notes ! — and start, and smile ! 

Let Winter come ! let polar spirits sweep 
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! 
Thoudi boundless snows the wither'd heath de- 
form, fstorm. 

And the dim sun scarce wanders through the 
Yet shall the smile of social love repay, 
"With mental light, the melancholy day ! 
And, when its short and sullen noon is o*er. 
The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, 
How brisrht the fagots in his little hall 
Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! 

How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, 
The kind fair friend, by nature mark'd his own; 
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind. 
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, 
Since when her empire o'er his heart began ! 
Since first he call'd her his before the holy man! 

Trim the gay tapei* in his rustic dome, 
And light the wintry paradise of home ; 
And let the half uncurtain'd window hail 
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale! 
Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high. 
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, 
3 



34 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

While fiery hosts In Heaven's wide eircle plaj, 
And bathe in lurid light the milky-way, 
Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower 
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn liour — ► 
With pathos shall command, Avith wit beguile, 
A generous tear of anguish or a smile — 
Thy woes, Arion ! and thy simple tale, 
O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail! 
Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true. 
How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, 
Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to 

save, 
And toil'd — and shriek'd — and perish'd on the 

wave ! 
Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep ; 
There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, 
The dying father bless'd his darling child ! 
Oh ! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried, 
Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died! 
Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes 
The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes ! 
How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear. 
His hand, blood-stain'd, but ever, ever dear ! 
Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord. 
And wept and pray'd perdition from his sword ! 
Nor sought in vain ! at that heart-piercing cry 
The strings of Nature crack'd with agony! 
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger liurl'd. 
And burst the ties that bound him to the world 1 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 35 

Turn from his dying words, that smite "svith steel 
The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the 

wheel — 
Turn to the gentler melodies that suit 
Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute ; 
Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page, 
From clime to clime descend, from age to age ! 

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude 
Than Fancv fashions in her wildest mood ; 
There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate 
What millions died — that Cissar might be great ! 
Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, 
March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy 

shore ; 
Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, 
The Swedish soldier sunk — and groan'd his last ! 
File after file the stormy showers benumb, 
Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum ! 
Horseman and horse confess'd the bitter pang, 
And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang! 
Yet. ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, 
Ere life's warm tori-ent to the fountain froze, 
The dying man. to Sweden turn'd his eye. 
Thought of his home, and closed it witli a sigh ! 
Imperial Pride look'd sullen on Jiis pliglit, 
Ai d Charles beheld — nor shudder'd at the sight ! 

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, 
Thy fairy Avorlds, Imagination, lie. 
And Hope attends, companion of tlie way.^ 
Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day I 



.^f) PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere 

That gems the starry girdle of the year ; 

In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, 

Pure from their God, created millions dwell, 

Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, 

We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; 

For, as Zona's saint, a giant form. 

Throned on her towers, conversing witli the storm, 

(AVhcn o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, 

The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) 

Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar, 

From Kilda to the green lerne's shore ; 

So, when thy pure and renovated mind 

This perishable dust hath left behind, 

Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train. 

Like distant isles embosom'd in the main ; 

Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, 

And light and life in mingling torrent ran ; 

From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd. 

The throne of God, — the centre of the world ! 

Oh ! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung 
That suasive Hope hath but a Siren tongue ! 
True ; slie may sport with life's untutor'd day, 
]Sor heed the solace of its last decay, 
The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, 
And part, like Ajut — never to return ! 

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage 
The grief and passions of our greener age. 
Though dull the close of life and far away 
Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day ; 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 37 

Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were clear, 
The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe. 
With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, 
And weep their falsehood, though she loves them 
still! 

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled. 
The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child ! 
Mui^ing on days, when yet the guiltless boy 
Smiled on his sire, and liU'd his heart with joy ! 
My Absalom ! the voice of Nature cried, 
Oh ! that for thee thy father could have died ! 
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done. 
That slew my Absalom ! — my son ! — my son ! 

Unhiding Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! 
Oil! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! 
What though each spark of earth-born rapture 

fly 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
Then, then, the triumj)h and the trance begin, 
And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! 

Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose. 
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! 
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
]\[ysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun I 
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, 



38 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

From your unfatliom'd shades, and viewless 

spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
*Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and 

loud, 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, 
"With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss. 
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; 
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! 
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, 
And life's last rapture triumphs o*er her woes. 
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze. 
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
"Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
AVhen Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still 
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill ! 

Soul of the just! companion of the dead! 
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 39 

Back to its heavenh' source thy being goes. 
Swift as the comet Avheels to wlience he rose ; 
Doom'd on his airy path a while to burn, 
And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return. — 
Hark ! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
"Willi sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, 
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; 
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, 
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; 
But wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd 
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; 
And o'er the path by mortal never trod, 
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! 

Oh ! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread 
One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, [expanse. 
Content to feed, witli pleasures unrefined. 
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 
"Who, mouldering earth Avard, 'reft of every trust, 
In joyless union wedded to the dust, 
Could all his parting energy dismiss. 
And call this barren world sufficient bliss? — 
There live, alas ! of heaven-directed mien, 
Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, 
Who hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim, of a day. 
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay. 
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bov\'er, 
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ; 



40 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

A friendless slave, a child w'thout a sire, 
Whose mortal life and momentar}^ fire, 
Light to the grave his chance-created form, 
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm ; 
And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o*er, 
To night and silence sink for evermore ! — 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 
Lisrhts of the world, and demi-ji^ods of Fame ? 
Is this your tnuniph — this your proud applause, 
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause 
For this hath Science search^l, on weaiy wing. 
By shore and sea — each mute and living thing ! 
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep ? 
Or round the cope her living chariot driven, 
And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of 

Heaven. 
Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there. 
To waft us home the message of despair ? 
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit. 
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit ! 
Ah me ! the laurell'd wreath that Murder rears. 
Blood-nursed, and water'd by the widow's tears. 
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic 

head. 
V^^hat is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? 
I smile on death, if Heavenward Hope remain; 
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife 
Be all the faithless charter of my life. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 41 

If Chance awaked, inexorable power, 
This frail and feveri.<h being of an hour ; 
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, 
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 
To know Deliglit but by her parting smile. 
And toil, and wish, and weep a little wliile ; 
Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain 
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! 
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, 
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 
Truth, ever lovely, — since the world began. 
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — 
How can thy words from balmy slumber start 
Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart ! 
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roU'd, 
And that were true which Nature never told, 
Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field ; 
No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd ! 
Oh ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate. 
The doom that bars us from a better fate ; 
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! 

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, 
Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay. 
Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale, 
It darkly hints a melancholy tale ! 
There as the homeless madman sits alone, 
In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan ! 
And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds. 
When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the 
clouds. 



42 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Poor lost Alonzo ! Fate's neglected cliild ! 

Mild be the doom of Heaven — as thou wert mild! 

For oh ! thy heart in holy mould was cast, 

And all thj deeds were blameless, but the last. 

Poor lost Alonzo ! still I seem to hear 

The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier ! 

"When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow 

drown'd, 
Thy midnight rites, but not on hallow'd ground ' 

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind. 
But leave — oh ! leave the light of Hope behind! 
Wliat though my winged hours of bliss have been, 
Like angel-visits, few and far between. 
Her musing mood shall every pang appease, 
And charm — when pleasures lose the power to 

please ! 
Yes ; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee : 
Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea — 
Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious smile, 
Chase every care, and charm a little while. 
Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, 
And all her strings are harmonized to joy ! — 
But wliy so short is Love's delighted hour? 
Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower ? 
Why can no hymned charm of music heal 
The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel ? 
Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create. 
To hide the sad realities of fate ? — 

No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, 
Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school, 



PLEASURES OF nOPK. 43 

Have power to soothe, unaided and alone, 
The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! 
"When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls, 
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ; 
When, 'reft of all, yon -widow'd sire appears 
A lonely hermit in the vale of years ; 
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow 
To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe? 
No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, — 
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you ! 
Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain, 
Congenial spirits part to meet again ! 

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew. 
What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu ! 
Daughter of Conrad ? when he heard his knell, 
And bade his country and his child farewell 
Doom'd the long isles of Sidney-cove to see, 
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee ? 
Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, 
And thrice return'd, to bless thee, and to part ; 
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd 

low 
The plaint that own'd unutterable woe ; 
Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, 
As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom, 
Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, 
Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! 

"And weep not thus," he cried, "young El- 
len ore. 
My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! 



44 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit bum, 
And soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! 
But not, raj child, with life's precarious fire, 
The immortal ties of Nature shall expire ; 
These shall resist the triumph of decay. 
When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away 
Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, 
But that which warm'd it once shall never die I 
That spark unburied in its mortal fiame, 
With living light, eternal, and the same, 
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years, 
Unveil'd by darkness — unassuaged by tears ! 

" Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, 
One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep ; 
But when I gain the home without a friend, 
And press the uneasy couch where none attend. 
This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart. 
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ! 
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh. 
And hush the groan of life's last agony ! 

" Farewell ! when strangers lift thy father's bier, 
And place my nameless stone without a tear ; 
Wlien each returning pledge hath told my child 
That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled ; 
And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees 
Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; 
Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o*er? 
Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore ? 
Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, 
Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied ? 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 45 

Ah ! no ; raetliinks the generous and the good 
"Will woo thee from the shades of solitude ! 
O'er friendless grief Compassion sliall awake, 
And smile on innocence, for Mercy's sake!" 

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be. 
The tears of Love were hopeless, but for the** ^ 
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, 
If that fjiint murmur be the last farewell, 
If Fate unite the faithful but to part. 
Why is their memory sacred to the heart ? 
Why does the brother of my childhood seem 
Restored a while in every pleasing dream ? 
Why do I joy the lonely spot to view. 
By artless friendship bless'd when life was new ? 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. — 
When all the sister planets have decay'd ; 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below ; 
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 



46 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 



" The Pleasures of Hope" has now passed througli nearly 
one liundred editions, been translated into all the chief con- 
tinental languages, for many years been in use in school and 
college as a model for imitation, and is now familiar in the 
mouths of our millions as " household words; " so that pane 
g3'ric or criticism may be here considered quite out of jjlace. 

No first production by any poet was ever more enthusiastic- 
ally received, nor did any poem ever bring its author so large 
a pecuniary recompense: true it is the copyright was origin- 
ally sold for the small sum of 50Z., to the firm of ilundcU tSc 
Co., the publishers of Edinburgh ; yet these gentlemen, acting 
in a most praiseworthy'- spirit, presented its author with 25/. 
upon the appearance of every edition of one thousand copies ; 
and indeed, to their credit be it recorded, after publication of 
the sixth edition, they allowed him to print one on his own 
account, by subscription ; this, of itself, produced 600/. Un- 
happily, some misunderstanding afterwards arose, Avhich 
caused the discontinuance of these douceurs; yet on the 
"whole first seven editions Campbell received for his 1100 
lines no less a sum than 900/. 

The work itself, besides having the rare merit in that age 
of metrical accuracy, great strength combined with natural 
simplicity of style and peculiar sweetness, had this further 
advantage in its favour, tliat the subjects interwoven with it 
were the very matters at the time peculiarly before the eye 
of the public; the great revolution in France, the partition of 
Poland, the abolition of negro slavery, all stood out in bold 
relief; and by the judicious way in which they were handled, 
became, as it were, the property of the writei', and awoke a 
responsive echo in the bosoms of tens of thousands. 

" ' The Pleasures of Hope ' appeared exactly when I was 
twenty-one years and nine months old. It gave me a general 
acquaintance in Edinburgh. Dr. Gregory, Henry Mackenzie, 
the author of the 'Alan of Feeling;' Dugald Stewart, the 
Rev. Archibald Alison, the ' Man of Taste,' and Thomas 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 47 

Telford, the engineer, became my immediate patrons." — Note 
from Campbell's Autobiography. 

Campbell's acquaintance in Edinburgh, as he observes, was 
now general; and, to the list of distinguished friends already 
mentioned, were now added the names of Gillies, Henry 
Erskine, and Laing, the historian. There were many young 
men of talent, nevertheless, to whom he was still unknown, 
unless by the growing reputation of his Poem. Walter Scott 
and he were already acquainted ; but to introduce him to the 
elite of his own private circle, Scott invited him to dinner. 
On his arrival at the hour appointed, Campbell met a strong 
muster of Mr. Scott's friends, among Avhom he was rather 
surprised to find himself a stranger. No introduction took 
place; but the subjects of conversation and the ability with 
which they were discussed, showed clearly that the guests, 
among whom he sat at table, were men of genius and talent. 
Great harmony prevailed; and where Scott presided, the con- 
versation was sure to be edifying as well as pleasant. At 
length, when the cloth was removed and the loyal toasts were 
disposed of, Scott stood up, and, with a handsome and com- 
plimentary notice of the new poem, ]>roposed a bumper to 
the "Author of the Pleasures of Hope." " The poem," he 
added, "is in the hands of all our friends; and the poet," 
pointing to a young gentleman on his right, " I have now the 
high honour of introducing to you as my guest." 

The toast was received witli enthusiasm. The eyes of the 
company were fixed on the young poet, and, although taken 
by surprise, he acknowledged tlie compliment with so much 
good taste and feeling, that after hearing him speak, no one 
felt surprised that so young a man had written "The Plea- 
sures of Hope." 



> 



/ 



<41. 



THEODRIC: 



A DOMESTIC TALK. 



■■•^ 



<^' 



TIIEODRIC. 

*rwAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, 

And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, 

That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, 

And tinged the lakes like molten gold below ; 

Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm, 

Where, Phocnix-like, you saw the eagle's form 

That high in Heaven's vermilion wheel'd and 

soar'd, [roar'd 

Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and 

From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin; 

Herds tinklinfj roam'd the lonjj-drawn vales be- 
es o 

tween, 
And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourisli'd 

green : 
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! 
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, 
And roving with his minstrelsy across 
The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss. 
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd, 
She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct, 
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled 

below 
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. 

A Gothic church was near ; the spot around 
Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground; 



52 THEODRIC. 

For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, 
But rases blossom'd by each rustic tomb. 
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone — 
A maiden's grave — and 'twas inscribed thereon, 
That young and loved she died whose dust was 
there : [fair ! 

*' Yes," said my comrade, " young she died, and 
Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd 
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : 
Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along, 
And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song : 
Yet woo'd, and worshipp'd as she was, till few 
Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true, 
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd 
And died of love that could not be return'd. 

Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines 
O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines : 
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride 
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to 

glide,— 
And still the garden whence she graced her brow, 
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. 
How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake, 
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake 
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, 
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear! 
Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited, and bland, 
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, 
Why had no gallant native youth the art 
To win so warm — so exquisite a heart? 



THEODRIC. 53 

She, 'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong 
By mountain-freedom — music — fancy-^song, 
Herself descended from the brave in arms, 
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms. 
Dreamt of Heroic beings ; hoped to find 
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind ; 
And scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the claim 
Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of fame. 

Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, 
And much her likeness both in mind and mould, 
Had gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine, 
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. 
'Twas when, alas ! our Empire's evil star 
Shed all the plagues, without the pride of war ; 
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish cross'd 
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. 
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day : 
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say. 
One corps had ever made a valiant stand, — 
The corps in which he served, — Tiieodkic's band. 
His fame, forgotten chief! is now gone by. 
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory's sky ; 
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show 
Our fields of battle twenty years ago, 
AVill tell you feats his small brigade perform'd, 
In charges nobly faced and trenches storm'd. 
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame, 
And soldiers loved the march that bore his name 
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call. 
And that Helvetian's, Udolph's, most of all. 



54 THEODRIC. 

*Twas touching, when the storm of war blew 

wild, 
To see a blooming boy, — almost a child, — 
Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs, 
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines. 
And speed each task, and tell each message clear, 
In scenes where war-train'd men were stunn'd with 

fear. 
Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy 
In yonder house, — when letters from the boy 
Thank'd Heaven for life, and more, to use his 

phrase. 
Than twenty lives — his own Commander's praise. 
Then follow'd glowing pages, blazoning forth 
The fancied image of his leader's worth. 
With such hyperboles of youthful style 
As made his parents dry their tears and smile : 
But differently far his words impress'd 
A wondering sister's well-believing breast ; — 
She caught th' illusion, bless'd Tiieodric's name, 
And wildly magnified his worth and fame ; 
Rejoicing life's reality contain'd 
One, heretofore, her fancy had but feign'd, 
"Whose love could make her proud ! — and time and 

chance 
To passion raised that day-dream of Romance. 

Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man 
Our arriere-guard had check'd the Gallic van, 
Theodric, visiting the outposts, found 
His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground; 



THEODRIC. 56 

Sore crusli'd, — half-swooning, half-upraised he lay, 
And bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasp'd the clay, 
His fate moved ev'n the common soldier's ruth — 
TiiEODRic succour'd him ; nor left the youth 
To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent, 
And lent what aid a brother would have lent. 

Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart 
The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart, 
He wrote th' event to them ; and soon could tell 
Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well ; 
And last of all, prognosticating cure, 
Enclosed the leech's vouching signature. 

Their answers, on whose pages you might note 
That tears had fall'n, whilst trembling fingers wrote, 
Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd, 
Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word, 
Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot ; 
But which the giver had himself forgot. 

In time, the stripling, vigorous and heal'd, 
Resumed his barb and banner in the field. 
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now 
The third campaign had manlier bronzed his 

brow. 
When peace, though but a scanty pause for 

breath, — 
A curtain-drop between the acts of death,^ 
A check in frantic war's unfinish'd game, 
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. 
The camp broke up, and Udolpii left his chief 
As with a son's or younger brother's grief: 



56 THPZODRIC. 

But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose ! 
How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard*s 

snows ; [horn. 

How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreck- 
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn 
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms ; 
^yhere, by the very smell of dairy-farms, 
And fi'agrance from the mountain-herbage blown, 
Blindfold his native hills he could have known ! 

His coming down yon lake, — his boat in view 
Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief 

flew, — [burst, — 

The arms spread out for him — the tears that 
('Twas Julia's, 'twas his sister's, met him first :) 
Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, 
And all their rapture's greeting, may be guess'd. 

Ere long, his bosom triumpli'd to unfold 
A gift he meant their gayest room to hold, — 
The picture of a friend in warlike dress; 
A>id who it was he first bade Julia guess. 
' Yes,' she replied, ' 'twas he methought in sleep, 
When you were wounded, told me not to weep.' 
The painting long in that sweet mansion drew 
Kegards its living semblance little knew. 

Meanwhile Tiieodric, who had vears before 
Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic 

lore, 
A glad entlmsiast now explored the land. 
Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in 
hand ; 



TIIEODRIC. 57 

Her women fair ; her men robust for toil ; 
Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil; 
Her towns, where civic independence flings 
The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings ; 
Her works of art, resembling magic's jjowers ; 
Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bow- 
ers,— 
These he had visited, with wonder's smile, 
And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. 
But how our fates from unmomentous things 
May rise, like rivers out of little springs ! 
A trivial chance postponed his parting day, 
And public tidings caused, in that delay, 
An English Jubilee. 'Twas a glorious sight ! 
At eve stupendous London, clad in light, 
Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze ; 
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze ; 
Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, 
And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land. 
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room. 
In open chariots pass'd with pearl and plume. 
Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien 
Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes liiv-i 

seen ; 
The throng detain'd her till he rein'd his steed. 
And, ere the beauty pass'd, had time to read 
The motto and the arms her carriage bore. 
Led by that clue, he left not England's shore 
Till he had known her; and to know her well 
Frolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell. 



58 THEODRIC. 

For with affections warm, intense, refined, 
She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind, 
That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, 
Celestial peace was pictured in her look. 
Hers was the brow, in trials unperplex'd. 
That cheer'd the sad, and tranquillized the vex'd ; 
She studied not the meanest to eclipse. 
And yet the wisest listen'd to her lips ; 
She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, 
But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will. 
He sought — he won her — and resolved to make 
His future home in England for her sake. 

Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern 
To Cesar's Court commanded his return, 
A season's space, — and on his Alpine w^ay, — 
He reach'd those bowers, that rang with joy that 

day: 
The boy was half beside himself, — the sire. 
All fi'ankness, honour, and Helvetian fire, 
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ; 
And tears bedew'd and brightened Julia's cheek. 

Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, 
A month he promised with them to abide ; 
As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they. 
And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay. 
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour, fann'd 
By yon blue water's breath, — their walks how 

bland ! 
Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite— 
A gem reflecting Nature's purest light, — 



TIIEODRIC. SIT 

And with her graceful wit tliere was inwrought 
A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, 
That almost child-like to his kindness drew, 
And twin with Udolpii in his friendship grew. 
But did his thoughts to love one moment range? — 
No! he who had loved Constance could not 

change ! 
Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd, 
Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, 
That eyes so young on years like his should beam 
Unwoo'd devotion back for pure esteem. 

True she sang to his very soul, and brought 
Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, 
Which only Music's heaven-born art can bring. 
To sweep across the mind with angel wing. 
Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, 
She paus'd o'ercome, he thought it might be 

chance, 
And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, 
Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. 
But when he saw his caution gave her pain, 
And kindness brought suspense's rack again. 
Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask 
Truths which her timid fondness fear'd to ask. 

And yet with gracefully ingenuous power 
Her spirit met th' explanatory hour ; — 
Ev'n conscious beauty brigliten'd in her eyes, 
That told she knew their love no vulgar prize j 
And pride like that of one more woman-grown, 
Enlarg'd her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone. 



60 THEODRia 

*Twas then she struck the keys, and music made 
That mock'd all skill her hand had e'er display'd 
Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, 
She look'd the very Muse of magic sound, 
Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, 
Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow. 
Her closing strain composed and calm she play'd. 
And sang no words to give its pathos aid ; 
But grief seem'd lingering in its lengthen'd swell, 
And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. 
Of Constance then she heard Tiieodric speak, 
And steadfast smoothness still possess'd her cheek 
But when he told her how he oft had plann'd 
Of old a journey to their mountain-land. 
That might have brought him hither years before, 
'Ah ! then/ she cried, ' you knew not England's 

shore ! 
And had you come, — and wherefore did you not?' 

* Yes,' he replied, ' it would have changed our lot !* 
Then burst her tears through pride's restraining 

bands, 
And with her handkerchief, and both her hands. 
She hid her voice and wept. — Contrition stung 
Tiieodric for the tears his words had wrung. 

* But no,' she cried, ' unsay not what you 've said, 
Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stay'd; 
To think I could have merited your faith 

Shall be my solace even unto death ! ' 

* Julia,' Tiieodric said, with purposed look 
Of firmness, ' my reply deserved rebuke ; 



TnEODRIC. 



61 



But by your pure and sacred peace of mind, 
And by the dignity of womankind, 
Swear that when I am gone you '11 do your best 
To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.' 

Th' abrupt appeal electrified her thought; — 
l^he look'd to Heav'n as if its aid she sought, 
Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, 
And signified the vow she could not speak. 

Ere long he communed with her mother mild: 
<Alas!' she said, 'I warn'd — conjured my child, 
And grieved for this affection from the first, 
But like fatality it has been nursed ; 
For when her tiU'd eyes on your picture fix'd, 
And when your name in all she spoke was mix'd, 
'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind ! 
Then each attempt a likelier choice to find 
Made only Iresh-rejected suitors grieve. 
And Udolph's pride — perhaps her own — believe 
That, could she meet, she might enchant ev'n you. 
You came. — I augur'd the event, 'tis true, 
But how was Udolph's mother to exclude 
The guest f^iat claim'd our boundless gratitude ? 
And that unconscious you had cast a spell 
On Julia's peace, my pride refused to tell: 
Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, 
Believe me well, how blameless you have been : 
Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end, 
Our debt of friendship to our boy's best fiiend.' 
At night he parted with the aged pair ; 
At early morn rose Julia to prepare 



62 THEODRIC. 

The last repast her hands for him should make 
And Udolph to convoy him o'er the lake. 
The parting was to her such bitter grief, 
That of her own accord she made it brief; 
But, lingering at her window, long survey'd 
His boat's last glimpses melting into shade. 

Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved 
His journey's object. Much was he relieved 
When Udolph's letters told that Julia's mind 
Had borne his loss, firm, tranquil, and resign'd. 
He took the Rhenish route to England, high 
Elate with hopes, fulfill'd their ecstasy. 
And interchanged with Constance's own breath 
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. 

To paint that being to a grovelling mind 
"Were like portraying pictures to the blind. 
*Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel 
Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal, 
To share existence with her, and to gain 
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain 
Of that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast 
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble ^est, 
Before the mind completely understood 
That mighty truth — how happy are the good ! 

Ev'n when her light forsook him, it bequeathed 
Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed 
A sweetness that survived her living days, 
As odorous scents outlast the censer's blaze. 

Or, if a trouble dimm'd their golden joy, 
*Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy : 



THEODRIC. 63 

Their home knew but affection's looks and speech — 
A little Heaven, above dissension's reach. 
But 'midst her kindred there was strife and gall ; 
Save one congenial sister, they were all 
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, 
As if she had engross'd the virtue of her race. 
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal, 
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; 
And, though the wounds she cured were soon 

unclosed, 
Unwearied still her kindness interposed. 

Oft on those errands though she went in vain, 
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain, 
He bore her absence for its pious end. — 
But public grief his spirit came to bend ; 
For war laid waste his native land once more, 
And German honour bled at every pore. 
Oh ! were he there, he thought, to rally back 
One broken band, or perish in the wrack ! 
Nor think that Constance sought to move and 

melt 
His purpose : like herself she spoke and felt : — 
' Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe 
Except its loss ! — but with you let me go 
To arm you for, to embrace you from, the fight ; 
Harm will not reach me — hazards will delisrht ! ' 
He knew those hazards better ; one campaign 
In England he conjured her to remain. 
And she express'd assent, although her heart 
In secret had resolved they should not part. 



64 THEODRIC. 

How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves 
Are wreck'd by errors most unlike themselves? 
That little fault, that fraud of love's romance, 
That plan's concealment, wrought their whole 

mischance. 
He knew it not preparing to embark, 
But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark. 
When, 'midst those number'd days, she made repair 
Asain to kindred worthless of her care. 
'Tis true she said the tidings she would write 
Would make her absence on his heart sit light; 
But, haplessly, reveal'd not yet her plan. 
And left him in his home a lonely man. [past ; 

Thus damp'd in thoughts, he mused upon the 
'Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last, 
And deep misgivings on his spirit fell 
That all with Udolph's household was not well. 
'Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear 
That augurs griefs inevitably near. 
Yet makes them not less startling to the mind 
When come. Least look'd-for then of human kind 
His Udolpii ('twas, he thought at first, his sprite,) 
With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. 
How changed was Udolph ! Scarce Theodrio 

durst 
Inquire his tidings, — he reveal'd the worst. 
'At first,' he said, ' as Julia bade me tell, 
She bore her fate high-mindedly and well, 
Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide. 
And from the world's compassion saved our pride ; 



THEODRIC. 65 

But still her health gave way to secret woe, 
And long she pined — for broken hearts die slow ! 
Her reason went, but came returning, like 
The warning of her death-hour — soon to strike ; 
And all for which she now, poor sufferer ! sighs, 
Is once to see Theodric ere she dies. 
Why should I come to tell you this caprice? 
Forgive me ! for my mind has lost its peace. 
I blame myself, and ne'er shall cease to blame, 
That my insane ambition for the name 
Of brother to Theodric, founded all 
Those high-built hopes that crush'd her by their 

fall. 
I made her slight her mother's counsel sage. 
But now my parents droop with grief and age : 
And, though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke. 
They overwhelm me with their dying look. 
The journey 's long, but you are full of ruth ; 
And she who shares your heart, and knows its 
Has faith in your affection, far above [truth, 

The fear of a poor dying object's love:' — 
* She has, my Udolph,' he replied, *'tis true; 
And oft we talk of Julia — oft of you.' 
Their converse came abruptly to a close ; 
For scarce could each his troubled looks coippose, 
When visitants, to Constance near akin, 
(In all but traits of soul,) were usher'd in. 
They brought not her, nor 'midst their kindred 

band 
The sister who alone, like hei', was bland ; 
6 



66 THEODRIC. 

But said — and smiled to see it gave liim pain — 
That Constance would a fortnight yet remain. 
Vex'd by their tidings, and the haughty view 
They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew, 
Theodric blamed his Constance's intent. — 
The demons went, and left him as they went 
To read, when they were gone beyond recall, 
A note from her loved hand explaining all. 
She said, that with their house she only staid 
That parting peace might with them all be made ; 
But pray'd for leave to share his foreign life, 
And shun all future chance of kindred strife. 
He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say : 
The letter miss'd her on her homeward way. 
In six hours Constance was within his arms : 
Moved, flush'd, unlike her wonted calm of charms, 
And breathless — with uplifted hands outspread — 
Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, — 
*I knew that those who brought your message 

laugh'd, 
With poison of their own to point the shaft ; 
And this my own kind sister thought, yet loth 
Confess'd she fear'd 'twas true you had been 

wroth. 
But here you are, and smile on me : my pain 
Is gone, and Constance is herself again.' 
Ills ecstasy, it may be guess'd, was much: 
Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seem'd to touch. 
What pride! embracing beauty's perfect mould; 
What terror 1 lest his few rash words mistold 



THEODRIC. 67 

Had agonized her pulse to fever's heat: 
But calm'd again so soon it healthful beat, 
And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound, 
Composed herself, she breathed composure round. 

Fair being! with what sympathetic grace 
She heard, bewail'd, and pleaded Julia's case ; 
Implored he would her dying wish attend, 
*And go,' she said, * to-morrow with your friend ; 
I '11 wait for your return on England's shore, 
And then we '11 cross the deep, and part no more/ 

To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew 
To Julia's call, and Constance urged aneAV 
That not to heed her now would be to bind 
A load of pain for life upon his mind. 
He went with Udolph — from his Constance 

went — 
Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment [mock 

Some ailment lurk'd, ev'n whilst she smiled, to 
His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock. 
Meanwhile a faithful j)M_L^e he singled out, 
To watch at home, and follow straight his route, 
If aught of threaten'd change her health should 

show. 
— With Udolph then he reach'd the house of woe. 

That winter's eve, how darkly Nature's -brow 
Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! 
The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice, 
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ; 
And, whilst their falHng echoed to the wind, 
The wolf's long howl in dismal discord join'd. 



68 THEODEIC. 

While white yon water's foam was raised in clouda 
That whiiTd like spirits wailing in their shrouds : 
Without was Nature's elemental din — 
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within ! 

Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half. 
Still knew him — smiled on him with feeble laugh — 
And bless'd him, till she drew her latest sigh ! 
But lo ! while Udolph's bursts of agony. 
And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, 
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 
'Twas tiding?, by his English messenger, 
Of Constance — brief and terrible they were. 
She still was living when the page set out 
From home, but whether now was left in doubt. 
Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death's relief — 
Stunn'd into stupor more than wrung with grief? 
It was not strange ; for in the human breast 
Two master-passions cannot coexist, 
And that alarm which now usurp'd his brain 
Shut out not only peace, but other pain. 
*Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud 
That cover'd Julia made him first weep loud, 
And tear himself away from them that wept. 
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept. 
Till, launch'd at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint 
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint, 
O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he bless'd 
The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast, 
Till reaching home, terrific omen ! there 
The straw-laid street preluded his despair— 



THEODKIC. G9 

The servant's look — the table that reveal'd 
His letter sent to Constance last, still seal'd — 
Though speech and hearing left him, told too cleai 
That he had now to suffer — not to fear. 
He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel — 
A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel: 
Her death's cause — he might make his peace with 

Heaven, 
Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven. 

The ocean has its ebbings — so has grief; 
'Twas vent to anguish, if 'twas not relief, 
To lay his brow ev'n on her death-cold cheek. 
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak : 
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear 
With self-reproach to deepen his despair: 

*'Twas blame,' she said, 'I shudder to relate, 
But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate ; 
Her mother (must I call her such ?) foresaw. 
Should Constance leave the land, she would 

withdraw 
Our House's charm against the world's neglect — 
The only gem that drew it some respect. 
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke 
To change her purpose — grew incensed, and broke 
With execrations from her kneeling child. 
Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild, 
Fear'd that she should not long the scene outlive^ 
Yet bade ev'n you th' unnatural one forgive. 
Till then her ailment had been slight, or none ; 
But fast she droop'd, and fiital pains came on : 



70 THEODRIC. 

Foreseeing their event, she dictated [said— - 

And sign'd these words for you/ The letter 

* TiiEODRic, this is destiny above 
Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love ! 
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne, 
For one true sister left me not forlorn ; 
And though you 're absent in another land, 
Sent from me by my own well-meant command, 
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine 
As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join : 
Shape not imagined horrors in my fate — 
Ev'n now my sufferings arc not very great ; 
And when your grief's first transports shall subside, 
I call upon your strength of soul and pride 
To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt, 
Love's glorying tribute — not forlorn regret: 
I charge my name with poAver to conjure up 
Kefiection's balmy, not its bitter cup. 
M}^ pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, 
Shall look not more regard than you have given 
To me ; and our life's union has been clad 
In smile? of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. 
Shall gloom be from suchbright remembrance cast? 
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past? 
No ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, 
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest; 
And let contentment on your spirit shine. 
As if its peace were still a part of mine : 
For if you war not proudly with your pain. 
For yoii I shall have worse than lived in vain. 



theOdric. 71 

But I conjure your manliness to bear 
My loss with noble spirit — not despair ; 
I ask you by our love to promise this, 
And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss, — 
The latest from my living lips for yours.* — 
Words that will solace him while life endures : 
For though his spirit from affliction's surge 
Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge, 
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate 
Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate, — 
That mind in whose regard all things were placed 
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced, 
That soul's example could not but dispense 
A portion of its own bless'd influence ; 
Invoking him to peace and that self-sway 
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away : 
And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with sucb 

woe 
As if her spirit watch'd him still below.** 



72 THEODRIC. 



Tnis appears to have originated on the occasion of the 
poet's visit to Germany in 1820, though the idea remained in 
embryo until 1824. 

In July of that year, Campbell, for the first time, announced 
to a frieiul tliis Avork in the following terms: — "I have a new 
[)oem — ' Theodric ' — a very domestic story, finished in about 
five hundred lines, common heroic rhyme, so-so, I think. I 
am rather in good heart about it, though not over sanguine." 
In writing to his sister, he says: " I am sorry there should be 
any great expectation excited about the poem, which is not 
of a nature to gratify such expectation. It is truly a domestic 
and private story. I know very well what will be its fate : 
there will be an outcry and regret that there is nothing grand 
or romantic in the poem, and that it is too humble and fami- 
liar; But I am prepared for this; and I also know that when 
it recovers from the first buzz of such criticism, it will attain 
a steady popularity." 

" Theodric " appeared in the month of November, and was 
received with a coldness which deeply wounded Campbell's 
sensitiveness, nor did he live to see it attain the popularity 
he anticipated. It has well been said that " a popular author 
has no rival so formidable as his former self, and no compari- 
son to sustain half so dangerous as that which is always made 
between the average merit of his new work and the remem- 
bered beauties of his old ones." 

" Theodric " is in every way a " domestic story," and has 
been described by the Edinburgh Review of January, 1825, 
as an attempt at a very difficult kind of poetry, and one in 
which the most complete success can hardly ever be so splen- 
did and striking as to make amends fur the difficulty. "It is 
entitled 'A domestic story,' — and it is so — turning upon few 
incidents — embracing few characters — dealing in no marvels 
and no terrors — displaying no stormy passions — without com- 
plication of plot, or hurry of action — with no atrocities to 
shudder at, or feats of noble daring to stir the spirits of the 



THEODKIC. 73 

ambitious, — it passes quietly on through the shaded paths of 
private life, conversing with gentle natures and patient suffer- 
ings, and unfolding, with serene pity and sober triumph, the 
pangs which are fated at times to wring the breast of inno- 
cence and generosity, and the conrnge and comfort AvhicU 
generosity and innocence can never fail to bestow. The tasle 
and the feeling which led to the selection of such topics could 
not but impress their character on the style in \\ hich they 
are treated. It is distinguished accordingly by a fine and 
tender finish both of thought and of diction ; by a chastened 
elegance of words and images; a mild dignity and tempered 
pathos in the sentiments, and a general tone of simplicity and 
directness in the conduct of the story, which, joined to its 
great brevit}', tends at first perhaps to disguise both the rich- 
ness and the force of the genius required for its production. 
But though not calculated to strike at once on the dull pallid 
ear of an idle and occupied world, it is of all others, perhaps, 
the kind of poetry best fitted to win on our softer hours, and 
to sink deep into vacant bosoms, unlocking all the sources 
of fond recollection, and leading us gently on through the 
mazes of deep and engi-ossing meditation, and thus minister- 
ing to a deeper enchantment and more lasting delight than 
can ever be inspired by the louder and more importunate 
strains of more ambitious authors. 

" There are, no doubt, peculiar, and perhaps insuperable, 
difficulties in the management of themes so delicate, and 
requiring so fine and so restrained a hand : nor are we pre- 
pared to say that Mr. Campbell has on this occasion entirely 
escaped them. There are passages that are somewhat fade, 
there are expressions that are trivial; but the prevailing cha- 
racter is sweetness and beauty, and it prevails over all that 
is opposed to it." 

In judging of this poem, it should not be concealed that it 
was written during intense anxiety touching the malady 
which at that time threatened his only surAiving child, and 
though "Theodric" has failed to add another wreath to 
Campbell's laurels, yet it must be conceded there do shine 
in it brilliant flashes of genius which relieve its hasty transi 
tions and the simplicity of the subject. 



TRANSLATIONS. 

[The folbwing are a few only of Campbell's Translations 
from the Greek; they were written at the age of sixteen, 
during his collegiate career, and their beauty and elegance 
went far to win for him the notice and friendship of the Pro- 
fessors.] 



MARTIAL ELEGY. 

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTiEUS. 

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, 
In front of battle for their native land ! 
But oh ! what ills await the wretch that yields, 
A recreant outcast from his country's fields ! 
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, 
An aged father at his side shall roam ; 
His little ones shall weeping with him go, 
And a young wife participate his woe ; 
"While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face, 
They pine for food, arrd beg from place to place. 

Stain of his breed ! dishonouring manhood's 
form, 
All ills shall cleave to him : — Affliction's storm 
Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, 
Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, 



MARTIAL ELEGY. 75 

He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name, 
And children, like himself, inured to shame. 

But we will combat for our fathers' land, 
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand. 
To save our children : — fight ye side by side, 
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, 
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost 
Of life itself in glorious battle lost. 

Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, 
Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant 

might ; 
Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast 
Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd) 
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, 
His hoary head dishevell'd in the dust. 
And venerable bosom bleeding bare. 

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, 
And beautiful in death the boy appears. 
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: 
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, 
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, 
For having perish'd in the front of war. 



76 



SDNG OF IIYBKIAS THE CRETAN. 

My wealth 's a burly spear and brand, 
And a right good shield of hides untann'd, 

Which on my arm I buckle : 
With these I plough, I reap, I sow, 
With these I make the sweet vintage flow, 

And all around me truckle. 

But your wights that take no pride to wield 
A massy spear and well-made shield, 

Nor joy to draw the sword : 
Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, 
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, 

To call me King and Lord. 



FRAGMENT. 

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN. 

The mountain summits sleep : glens, cliffs, and 

caves 

Are silent — all the black earth's reptile brood — 

The bees — the wild beasts of the mountain wood: 

111 depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves 

Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and 

spray [the day. 

Each bird is hush'd that stretcli'd its pinions to 



77 



SPECDIEXS OF TRANSLATIONS FROM 
MEDEA. 

^Kaioi)^ 6e Tityuv, Kovdiv rt ao(j)Ov<: 
Toi)f npoa&e (3poTov^ ovk uv ufiapTOig. 

Uedea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit. 

Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime 
First cliarm'd the ear of youthful Time, 
With numbers "wrapt in heavenly fire, 
Who bade delighted Echo swell 
The trembling transports of the lyre, 
The murmur of the shell — 
Why to the burst of Joy alone 
Accords sweet Music's soothing tone ? 
Why can no bard, with magic strain, 
In slumbers steep the heart of pain ? 
While varied tones obey your sweep, 
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep, 
Bends not despairing Grief to hear 
Your golden lute, with ravish'd ear ? 
Has all your art no power to bind 
The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, 
And lull the wrath at whose command 
Murder bares her gory hand ? 
When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng 
Weave the light dance, ye swell the song ! 
Cease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm 1 
The breast with other raptures warm ! 
Cease ! till your hand with magic strain 
In slumbers steep the heart of pain ! 



78 
SPEECH OF THE uHOKUS, 

IN TUE SAME TRAGEDY, 

TO DISSUADE MEDEA FKOM IIER PURPOSE OF PUTTIXG HEB 

CHILDKEK TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR 

PROTECTION TO ATHENS. 

O HAGGARD queeii ! to Athens dost thou guide 
Thy glowing chariot, steep'd in kindred gore ; 

Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide 

Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore r 

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, 
Woos the deep silence of sequester'd bowers, 

And warriors, matchless since the first of time, 
Kear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd 
towers ! 

Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain. 
Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, 

While Spring eternal on the lilied plain. 

Waves amber radiance through the fields of air! 

The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) [among 
First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes 

Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell ; 
Still in your vales they swell the choral song I 

I>ut there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, 

The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now 

Sprung from Plarmonia, while her graceful hair 
Waved in high auburn o'er her polish'd brow I 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 79 



ANTISTROPHE I. 

Where silent vales, and glades of green array, 
The murmuring wreaths of cool Cepliisus lave, 

There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of daj, 
The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave ; 

And bless'd the stream, and breathed across the 

land [bowers ; 

The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer 

And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, 

Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy 

flowers ! 

"And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove, 
With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume ; 

Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, 
Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender 
bloom ! 

Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft controul. 
To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind ! 

With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul. 
And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind." 



STROPHE II. 

The land where Heaven's own hallowed waters 
play, [good, 

Where friendship binds the generous and the 
Say, shall it hail tl\ee from thy frantic way. 

Unholy woman ! witli thy hands embrued 



80 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 

In thine own children's gore ! Oh ! ere they bleed. 
Let Nature's voice tlij ruthless heart appall ! 

Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed — 

The mother strikes — the guiltless babes shall 
fall ! 

Thiilk what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall 
sting, 

When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear ! 
Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring 

The screams of horror in thy tortured ear? 

No ! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry, — 

In dust we kneel — by sacred Heaven implore — 

O ! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, 
Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore ! 



ANTISTROPHE II. 

Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, 
Undamp'd by horror at the daring plan ? 

Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom ? 
Or hands to finish what thy wrath began ? 

When o'er each babe you look a last adieu, 
And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, 

Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, 

Charm thee to pensive thought — and bid thee 
weep? 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 81 

When the young suppliants clasp their parent 
dear, 
Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless 
prayer — 
Ay! thou shalt melt; — and many a heart-shed 
tear 
Gush o'er the harden'd features of despair ! 

Nature shall throb in every tender string, — 
Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny ;— 

Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling 

The blade, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye. 



CHORUS. 

Hallow'd Earth ! with indignation 
Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed ! 

Radiant eye of wide creation, 
Watch th' accurs'd infanticide ! 

Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter 

Perpetrate the dire design, 
And consign to kindred slaughter 

Children of thy golden line I 

Shall mortal hand, with murder gory, 
Cause immortal blood to flow ? 

Sun of Heaven ! — array'd in glory 
Rise, forbid, avert the blow ! 
. 6 



82 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 

In the vales of placid gladness 
Let no rueful maniac range ; 

Chase afar the fiend of Madness, 
Wrest the dagger from Revenge ! 

Say, hast thou, with kind protection, 
Rear'd thy smiling race in vain ; 

Fostering Nature's fond affection, 
Tender cares, and pleasing pain ? 

Hast thou, on the troubled ocean. 
Braved the tempest loud and strong, 

Where the waves, in wild commotion, 
Roar Cyanean rocks among? 

Didst thou roam the paths of danger, 
Ilymenean joys to prove ? 

Spare, O sanguinary stranger, 
Pledges of thy sacred love ! 

Ask not Heaven's commiseration, 
After thou hast done the deed ; 

IMercy, pardon, expiation. 

Perish when thy victims bleed* 



83 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD; 

OK, 
**THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDmO.* 

I. 

On ! once the harp of Innisfail 

TVas strung full high to notes of gladness : 

But yet it often told a tale 

Of more prevailing sadness. 

Sad was the note, and wild its fall, 

As winds that moan at night forlorn 

Along the isles of Fion-Gall, 

"When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, 

The harper told, how lone, how far 

From any mansion's twinkling star, 

From any path of social men, 

Or voice, but from the fox's den, 

The lady in the desert dwelt ; 

And yet no wrongs, nor fears she felt : 

Say, why should dwell in [)lace so wild, 

O'Connor's pale and lovely child? 

IT. 

Sweet lady ! she no more inspires 
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, 



84 O'Connor's child. 

As, in the palace of her sires, 

She bloom'd a peerless flower. 

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, 

The royal broche, the jewell'd ring, 

That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, 

Like dews on lilies of the spring. 

Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne. 

Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern. 

While yet in Leinster unexplored. 

Her friends survive the English sword; 

"Why lingers she from Erin's host. 

So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast ; 

Why wanders she a huntress wild — 

O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 

III. 
And fix'd on empty space, why bum 
Her eyes with momentary wildness ; 
And wherefore do they then return 
To more than woman's mildness? 
Dishevell'd are her raven locks ; 
On Connocht Moran's name she calls ; 
And oft amidst the lonely rocks 
She sinojs sweet madrio-als. 
Placed 'midst the foxglove and the mos3, 
Behold a parted warrior's cross ! 
That is the spot where, evermore, 
The lady, at her shieling door. 
Enjoys that, in communion sweet. 
The living and the dead can meet, 



O'Connor's child. 85 

For, lo ! to love-lorn fantasy, 
The hero of her heart is nigh. 

IV. 

Bright as the bow that spans the storm, 
In Erin's yellow vesture clad, 
A son of light — a lovely form, 
He comes and makes her glad ; 
Now on the gniss-green turf he sits, 
His tassell'd horn beside him laid ; 
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, 
The hunter and the deer a sliade ! 
Sweet mourner! these are shadows vain 
That cross the twilight of her brain ; 
Yet she will tell you, she is blest. 
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd. 
More richly than in Aghrim's bower, 
"When bards high praised her beauty's power, 
And kneeling pages ofTer'd up 
The morat in a golden cup. 

V. 

"A hero's bride ! tliis desert bower. 
It ill befits thy gentle breeding: 
And wherefore dost thou love this flower 
To call—* My love lies bleeding ? ' " 

"This purple flower my tears have nursed ; 
A hero's blood supplied its bloom: 
I love it, for it was the first 
That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. 



86 o'conjsor's child. 

Oh ! hearken, stranger, to m j voice ! 
This desert mansion is my choice ! 
And blest, though fatal, be the star 
That led me to its wilds afar : 
For here these pathless mountains free 
Gave shelter to my love and me ; 
And every rock and every stone 
Bore witness that he was my own, 

VI. 

O'Connor's child, I was the bud 

Of Erin's royal tree of glory ; 

But woe to them that wrapt- in blood 

The tissue of ray story ! 

Still as I clasp my burning brain, 

A death-scene rushes on my sight ; 

It rises o'er and o'er again. 

The bloody feud — the fatal night, 

"When chaiing Connocht Moran's scorn, 

They calFd my hero basely born ; 

And bade him choose a meaner bride 

Than from O'Connor's house of pride. 

Their tribe, they said, their high degree, 

"Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; 

"Witness their Eath's victorious brand, 

And Cathal of the bloody hand ; 

Glory (they said) and power and honour 

"Were in the mansion of O'Connor: 

But he, my loved one, bore in /ield 

A humbler crest, a meaner shield. 



O'Connor's child. 87 



VII. 

Ah, brothers! what did it avail, 
That fiercely and triuraplmntly 
Ye fought the English of the Pale, 
And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry ! 
And what was it to love and me, 
That barons by your standard rode ; 
Or beal-fires for your jubilee 
Upon a hundred mountains glow'd? 
What though the lords of tower and dome 
From Shannon to the North-sea foam, — 
Thought ye your iron hands of pride 
Could break the knot that love had tied ? 
No: — let the eagle change his plume, 
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; 
But ties around this heart were spun, 
That could not, would not, be undone ! 

VIII. 

At bleating of the wild watch-fold 
Thus sang my love — ' Oh, come with mie: 
Our bark is on the lake, behold 
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. 
Come far from .Castle-Connor's clans : — 
Come with thy belted forestere, 
And I, beside the lake of swans. 
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; 
And build thy hut, and bring thee home 
The wild-fowl and the honey- comb ; 



88 ^ O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

And berries from the wood provide, 
And play my clarshech by thy side. 
Then come, my love ! ' — How could I stay ? 
Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way. 
And I pursued, by moonless skies, 
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. 

IX. 

And fast and far, before the star 
Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade, 
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 
■ Of Castle-Connor fade. 
Sweet was to us the hermitage 
Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore ; 
Like birds all joyous from tlie cage. 
For man's neglect we loved it more. 
And well he knew, my huntsman dear, 
To search the game with hawk and spear; 
AVIiile I, his evening food to dress. 
Would sing to him in happiness. 
But, oh, that midnight of despair ! 
When I was doom'd to rend my hair: 
The night, to me, of siirieking sorrow! 
The night, to him, that had no morrow 1 

X. 

When all was hush'd at even tide, 
I heard the baying of their beagle: 
Be husird ! my Connocht Moran cried, 
*Tis but the screaminc: of the eagle. 



O'Connor's child. 89 

Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ; 

Tlieir bloody bands had track'd us out ; 

Up-listening starts *our couchant hound — 

And, hark ! again, that nearer shout 

Brings faster on the murderers. 

Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce ! 

In vain — no voice the adder charms ; 

Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms : 

Another's sword has laid him low — 

Another's and another's ; 

And every hand that dealt the blow — 

Ah me ! it was a brother's ! 

Yes, when his moanings died away, 

Their iron hands had dug the clay, 

And o'er his burial turf they trod, 

And I beheld — oh God ! oh God ! — 

His life-blood oozing from the sod. 

XI. 

Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, 
Alas ! my warrior's spirit brave 
Kor mass nor ulla-luUa heard. 
Lamenting, soothe his grave. 
•Dragg'd to their hated mansion back. 
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay 
I know not, for my soul was black, 
And knew no change of night or day. 
One night of horror round me grew; 
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 
'Twas but when those grim visages, 



90 O'Connor's child. 

The angrj brothers of mj race, 
G hired on each eye-ball's aching throb, 
And check'd my bosom's power to sob, 
Or when my heart with pulses drear 
Beat like a death-watch to my ear. 

XII. 

But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse 
Did with a vision bright inspire ; 
I woke and felt upon my lips 
A prophetess's fire. 
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat, 
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound, 
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, 
My guilty, trembling brothers round. 
Clad in the helm and shield they cam* , 
For now De Bourgo's sword and flamv 
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, 
And lighted up the midnight skies. 
The standard of O'Connor's sway 
"Was in the turret where I lay; 
That standard, with so dire a look. 
As ghastly shone the moon and pale, 
I gave, — that every bosom shook 
Beneath its iron mail. 

XIII. 

And go ! (I cried) the combat seek, 
Ye hearts that unappalled bore 
The anguish of a sister's shriek, 



O'Connor's child. 91 

Go ! — and return no more ! 
For sooner guilt the ordeal brand 
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold 
The banner with victorious hand, 
IJeneath a sister's eur.-^e unroll'd. 

stranger ! bj mj country's loss ! 
And by iny love ! and by the cross ! 

1 swear I never could have spoke 
The curse that sever'd nature's yoke, 
But that a spirit o'er me stood, 

And lired me with the wrathful mood 
And frenzy to my heart was given, 
To speak the malison of heaven. 

XIV. 

They would have cross'd themselves, all mute ; 

rhey Avould have pray'd to burst the spell ; 

But at the stamping of my foot 

Each hand down powerless fell ! 

And go to Athunree ! (I cried) 

High lift the banner of your pride ! 

But know that where its sheet unrolls, 

The weight of blood is on your souls ! 

Go where the havoc of your kerne 

Shall float as high as mountain fern ! 

IMen shall no more your mansion know; 

The nettles on your hearth shall grow! 

Dead, as the green oblivious flood 

That mantles by your walls, shall be 

The glory of O'Connor's blood I 



92 O'Connor's child. 

Away ! away to Athunree ! 

Where, downward when the sun shall fall, 

The raven's wing shall be your pall 1 

And not a vassal shall unlace 

The vizor from your dying face I 

XV. 

A bolt that overhung our dome 
Suspended till my curse was given, 
Soon as it pass*d these lips of foam, 
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven. 
Dire was the look that o'er their backs 
The angry parting brothers threw : 
But now, behold ! like cataracts. 
Come down the hills in view 
O'Connor's plumed partisans ; 
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans 
Were marching to their doom : 
A sudden storm their plumage toss*d, 
A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd, 
And all again was gloom ! 

XVI. 

Stranger ! I fled the home of grief, 
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall; 
I found the helmet of my chief, 
His bow still hanging on our wall, 
And took it down, and vow'd to rove 
This desert place a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 



O'CONNOU'S CHILD. 93 

For any heart of living mould. 
No ! for I am a hero's child ; 
I *1I hunt my quarry in the wild ; 
And still my home this mansion make, 
Of all unheeded and unheeding, 
And cherish, for my warrior's sake — 
* The flower of love lies bleeding.' " 



Tms small piece was suggested by Campbell seeing a flower 
in his own garden at Sydenliam, called " Love lies bleeding; " 
to this circumstance we owe the touching nairative of O'Con- 
nor's Child, composed in December, 1809, and published in 
the spring of the following j'car. It has been considered bj 
many good judges as the most higlily finished of all Cami> 
boll's miuor pieces. 



94 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 
WiZAKD — LocniEL. 

WIZARD. 

LocniF.L, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 

crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of 

war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-liglited watch-fire, all niglit at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the bravOi 



LOCniEL*S WARNING. 95 



LOCniEL 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death -telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

"WIZARD. 

Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, [torn ! 
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the 

north ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the 

blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 

heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it 

stood, [brood. 

And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 



96 lochiel's warning. 



LOCHIEL. 

False "Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshaU'd my clan, 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their 

breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the 

rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, ^ 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud. 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 



For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive 

king. 
Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
Behold, ^vhere he flies on his desolate path ! 
Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my 

sight : 
Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover liis flight ! 



lochiel's warning. 97 

*Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the 
CuUoden is lost, and my country deplores, [moors ; 
But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, 
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 
Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; 
His death-bell is tolling : oh ! mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, 
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to 

beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 

. LOCHIEL. 

Down, soothless iusulter ! I trust not the tale : 



For never shall Albin a destiny meet, 

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 

Tho* my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their 

gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 
And leaving in battle no blot on his name, [fame. 
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of 
7 1802. 



98 



YE MAEINERS OF ENGLAM): 

A NAVAL ODE. 
I. 

Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds dq blow. 

ir. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow, 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



\ 



TE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 99 



III. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow : 

When the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

IV. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

isOO. 



100 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



This naval ode was written at Altona, in the winter of 1800, 
when the poet was twenty-three years of age; it appeared 
first in the Morning Chronicle with the following title, "Altera- 
tion of the old ballad * Ye Gentlemen of England,' composed 
on the prospect of a Russian war," and signed, "Amator 
Patriae." At this time the South Eastern and Southern 
coasts of England were first fortified with martello towers 
as a defence against foreign invasion ; to this fact reference 
is elegantly made in the lines 

" Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
No towers along the steep." 

The subject was first suggested by hearing the air of the 
old ballad before mentioned played at the house of a friend 
in Scotland; aiH when the rumour of war with Russia be- 
came a generaJ topic of conversation among the British at 
Altona, it arou»ed Campbell's patriotism, and hence the 
result in verse. 



m 



101 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

I. 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the liglited brand, 

In a bold determined liand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. — 

II. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime s 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. — 



102 BATTLE OP THE BALTIC. 



III. 

But the minjlit of Endand €usli'd 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the dcadlj space between. 

* Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each 

gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 



IV. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer tlie Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom ; 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'd sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. — 



Out spoke the victor then. 
As he hail'd them o'er the wave ; 
* Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
And we conquer but to save : — 



BATTLE OF Till: BALTIC. 103 

So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
With the crews, at England's feet, 
And make submission meet 
To our King.' — 



VI. 

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from the day. 

While the sun look'd srailin"r bright 

O'er a wide and woful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

TII. 

Now joy, Old England, raise I 
For the tidings of thy might. 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep, 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 



104 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 



VIII. 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died; — 

With the gallant good Riou ;^ 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave I 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid's song condoles. 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

1805. 

1 Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good by 
Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches. 



105 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commandinnj fires of death to li^ht 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neigh'd, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven. 
Then rush*d the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



106 HOHENLINDEN. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fierj Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet. 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



1802. 



This poem was composed in the year 1802, and printed ano- 
nymously with " Lochiel," being dedicated to the Rev. A. Ali- 
Eon. It lias been described as " the only representation of a 
modern battle which possesses either interest or sublimity." 

Washington Irving, in a " Biographical Sketch of Camp- 
bell," appended to "The Poetry and History of Wyoming, 
containing Campbell's * Gertrude,' " speaks of this piece aud 
Lochiel, as "Exquisite gems, sufficient of themselves to esta- 
blish his title to the sacred name of poet;" and Sir Walter 
Scott, during a visit of the same gifted individual to Abbots- 
ford, made the following observation — "And there 's that glo- 
rious little poem too of ' Hohenlinden;' afler he had written 
xt he did not seem to think much of it, but considerecl some 
of it d — d drum and trumpet lines. I got him to recite it to 
nie, and I believe that the delight I felt aud expressed had an 
effect in inducing him to print it. 

" The fact is," added he, " Campbell is in a manner a bug. 
bear to himself. The brightness of his early success is a 
detriment to all his further etforts. Ue is afraid of the shadow 
that his own fame casts hefore Mmy 



107 



GLENAEA. 

O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, 
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and 

wail? 
*Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; 
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. 

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; 
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourn'd not aloud : 
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; 
They march'd all in silence, — they look'd on the 
ground. 

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, 
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and 

hoar : 
" Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn : 
Why speak ye no word ! " — said Glenara the stern. 

"And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, 
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your 

brows?" 
So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made, 
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd. 



108 GLENARA. 

** I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and 

loud: 
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : 
Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " 

! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, 
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was 

seen ; 
"When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in 

scorn, 
*Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of 

Lorn : 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: 
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; 
Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " 

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was 

found ; 
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne — 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ! 



^ GLENARA. 109 



This poem of " Glenara," written in the year 1797, at the 
, ge of nineteen, was suggested by the following tradition : — 
'Maclean, of Duart, having determined to get rid of his 
wife, * Ellen of Lorn,' had her treacherously conveyed to a 
rock in the sea, where she was left to perish by the rising 
tide. He then announced to her kinsmen *his sudden be 
reavement,' and exhorted them to join in his grief. In the 
mean time the lady was accidentally rescued from the certain 
death that awaited her, and restored to her father. Her hus- 
band, little suspecting what had happened, was suffered to 
go through the solemn mockery of a funeral. At last, when 
the bier rested at the * gray stone of her cairn,' on examina- 
tion of the coffin by her kinsmen, it was found to contain 
stones, rubbish, &c., whereupon Maclean was instantly sacri- 
ficed by the Clan Dougal and thrown into the ready-made 
grave.'* 

This wild and romantic story has been rendered immortal 
by the late Joanna Baillie, in ^^The Family Legend.** 



no 



EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and 
chill; 
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight re- 
pairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; 

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, 
But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 

A home and a country remain not to me. 
Never again, in the green sunny bowers. 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the 

sweet hours. 
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers. 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh I 

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 



EXILE OF ERIN. Ill 

But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no 
more ! 
Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase 

me ? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
They died to defend me or live to deplore ! 

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ; 

And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? 
Oh ! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure. 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without mea- 
sure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 
Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 

Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean ! 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo- 
tion, — 

Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh ! ^ 

1600. 

1 Ii'eland my darling, Ireland for ever. 



112 * EXILE OF ERIN. 



*' While tarrying at Hamburg, I made acquaintance with 
some of the refugee Irishmen who had been concerned in the 
rebellion of 1798. Among these was Anthony Mac Cann, an 
honest, excellent man, who is still, I believe, alive, at least I 
left him in prosperous circumstances at Altona a few years 
ago. [Mac Cann is since dead; Campbell and he met last in 
the autumn of 1825.] When I first knew him he was in a 
situation much the reverse ; but Anthony commanded respect, 
whether he was rich or poor. It was in consequence of meet- 
ing him one evening on the banks of the Elbe, lonely and 
pensive at the thoughts of his situation, that I wrote the 
*Exileof Erin.' ... 



113 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry I 

And I '11 give thee a silver pound, 
To row us o'er the ferry," — 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water ? " 

«0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And tliis Lord Ullin's daughter. — 

And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together, 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood, would stain the heather. 

His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover ? **— 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : — 
8 



114 LORD ULLIN's daughter. 

It is not for your silver bright ; 
But for your winsome lady : 

And by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry : 

So though the waves are raging white, 
I '11 row you o'er the ferry." — 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water- wraith was shrieking ; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men. 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." — 

The boat has left a stormy land, 
A stormy sea before her, — 

When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 
The tempest gathered o'er her. — 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing : 



LORD ULLIN's daughter. 115 

Lord UuUin reach'J that fatal shore, 
His wrath was chanfi;ed to wailin<j. — 

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover ; — 
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

/ " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 
" Across this stormy water : 
And I'll forgive your Higliland chief. 
My daughter! — oh my daughter!" — 

'Twas vain : — the loud waves lash'd the shore, 

Heturn or aid preventing : — 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And he was lefr lamenting. 

1804. 



116 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

Soul of the Poet ! wheresoever, 
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume 
Her wings of immortality : 
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, 
And with thine influence illume 
The gladness of our jubilee. 

And fly like fiends from secret spell, 
Discord and Strife, at Burns's name, 
Exorcised by his memory ; 
For he was chief of bards that swell 
The heart with songs of social flame, 
And high delicious revelry. 

And Love*s own strain to him was given, 

To warble all its ecstasies 

With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd, — 

Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, 

The choicest sweet of Paradise, 

In life's else bitter cup distill'd. 

Who that has melted o'er his lay 
To IMarv's soul, in Heaven above, 



ODE TO Tin: .-MEMORY OF BURNS. 117 

But pictured sees, in fancy strong, 
The landscape and the livelong day 
That smiled upon their mutual love ? — 
Who that has felt forgets the song ? 

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan : 
His country's high-soul'd peasantry 
What patriot-pride he taught ! — how much 
To weigh the inborn worth of man! 
And rustic life and poverty 
Grow beautiful beneath his touch. 

Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse 
Entranced, and show'd him all the forms, 
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, 
(That only gifted Poet views,) 
The Genii of the floods and storms, 
And martial shades from Glory's tomb. 

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse 

The swain whom Burns's song inspires ! 

Beat not his Caledonian veins, 

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs. 

With all the spirit of his sires. 

And all their scorn of death and chains ? 

And see the Scottish exile, tann'd 
By many a far and foreign clime. 
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep 
In memory of his native land. 



118 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

With love that scorns the lapse of time, 
And ties that stretch beyond the deep. 

Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild, 

The soldier resting on his arms. 

In BuRNs's carol sweet recalls 

The scenes that bless'd him when a child, 

And glows and gladdens at the charms 

Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. 

O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife, 
An idle art the Poet brings : 
Let high Philosophy control. 
And sages calm the stream of life, 
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs, 
The nobler passions of the soul. 

It is the muse that consecrates 
The native banner of the brave, 
Unfurling, at the trumpet's brecih, 
Rose, thistle, harp ; 'tis she elates 
To sweep the field or ride the wave, 
A sunburst in the storm of death. 

And thou, young hero, when thy pall 

Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume, 

When public grief begins to fade. 

And only tears of kindred fall. 

Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb. 

And greet with fame thy gallant shade ? 



I 



ODE TO TU:: .n: JIOKY OF BURNS. 119 

Such was the soldier — Burns, forgive 

That sorrows of mine own intrude 

In strains to thy great memory due. 

In verse like thine, oh ! could he live, 

The friend I mourn'd — the brave — the good — 

Edward that died at AVaterloo ! ^ 

. Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! 
That couldst alternately impart 
Wisdom and rapture in thy page, 
And brand each vice with satire strong, 
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, 
Whose truths electrify the sage. 

Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare 
To wring one baleful poison drop 
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust : 
But while the lark sings sweet in air, 
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop. 
To bless the spot that holds thy dust. 

1815. 

1 Iklajor Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, -who fell at the 
^ead of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers. 



120 



LINES 

WKITTEJ(r ON VISITING A SCENE IN AKGTLESHIRE. 

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, 

I bare mused in a sonowful mood, 
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the 
bower 

Where the home of my forefathers stood. 
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, 

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : 
And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, 
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode, 

To his hills that encircle the sea. 

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk. 

By the dial-stone aged and green. 
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk. 

To mark where a garden had been. 
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, 
From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace, 
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the 
place, 

Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 



LIXES. 121 

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all 

That remains in this desolate heart ! 
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 

But patience shall never depart ! 
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and 
bright, 

In the days of delusion by fancy combined 
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night. 

And leave but a desert behind. 

Be hush'd, my dark spirit ! for wisdom con- 
demns 
When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 

A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of 
disdain. 
May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! 
Yea ! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain 
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ; 
To bear is tc conquer our fate. 

1800. 



122 LINES. 



The sce\ie visited was the ruin of " Kiman ; " situate in 
the vale of Glassaiy, about a mile and a half from the ancient 
manse of Kilmichael. His gi*andfather, Archibald Campbell, 
had been the last occupant; and he, when somewhat beyond 
the flower of youth, contracted marriage with I\Iargaret, 
daughter of Stuart the laird of Ascog, in the island of Bute, 
widow of John ^lac Arthur, of Milton, whose lands abutted 
upon the Kirnan estate. Upon LIr. A. Campbell's decease, 
.Robert, his eldest son, appears to have inherited the family 
mansion, and in process of time to have disposed of it to John 
Mac Arthur, his half-brother, in order to liquidate debts in- 
curred by profuse Highland hospitality, a love of military 
display, and a numerous train of retainers. 

Mr. Mac Arthur, on the completion of his purchase, still 
continued to reside at Milton, the new property being incor- 
porated with the old. The house at Kirnan gradually fell 
out of repair, became uninhabitable, and finally lay ruinous 
and deserted; a melancholy subject for contemplation to a 
stranger, but doubly so to one who saw in the "roofless 
abode " an evident picture of the decayed prosperity of his 
ovm family. 



123 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAJVL 

Our bugles sang truce — ^for the night-cloud had 

lower'd, [sky ; 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the 

And thousands had sunk on the ground over- 

power'd, 

The "vveary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the 
slain ; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : 

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed mt 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 



124 THE SOLDTETl's DREAM. 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 
swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never 
to part ; 
My little ones kiss*d me a thousand times o*er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of 
heart. 

Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and 
worn ; 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to 
stay ;— 
But sorrow return*d with the dawning of mora. 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



125 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art — 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
Thy form to please me so. 

As when I dreamt of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 



126 TO THE BATNBOW. 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
But words of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

When o'er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
The first-made anthem rang 

On earth deliver'd from the deep. 
And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
Unraptured greet thy beam ; 

Theme of primeval prophecy. 
Be still the prophet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings, 

When glittering in the freshen'd fields 
The snowy mushroom springs. 



TO THE RAINBOW. 127 

How glorious is thy girdle, cast 

O'er mountain, tower, and town, 
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, 

A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 

As young thy beauties seem, 
As when the eagle from the ark 

First sported in thy beam: 

For, faithful to its sacred page. 

Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
Nor lets the type grow pale with age 

That first spoke peace to man. 

181A. 



128 



THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The Sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its Immortality! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould 
That siiall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The Earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
With dauntless words and high. 

That shook the sere leaves from the wood 
As if a storm pass'd by, 



THE LAST MAN. 129 

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

*Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

What though beneath thee man put fortk 

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, 

The vassals of his will? — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim dir^crowned king of day ; 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail'd on human hearts. 

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again ; 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd. 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 
To watch thy fading fire ; 
9 



130 THE LAST MAN. 

Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By him recall'd to breath. 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — 

And took the sting from Death ! 

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face. 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



1823. 



131 



A DREAM. 

Well may sleep present us fictions, 
Since our waking moments teem 

With such fanciful convictions 
As make life itself a dream. — 

Half our daylight faith 's a fable ; 
Sleep disports with shadows too, 

Seeming in their turn as stable 
. As the world we wake to view. 

Ne*er by day did Reason's mint 

Give my thoughts a clearer print 

Of assured reality, 

Than was left by Phiintasy 

Stamp'd. and colourM on my sprite, 

In a dream of yesternight. . 

In a bark, methought, lone steering, 
I was cast on Ocean's strife ; 

This, 'twas whispered in my hearing, 
Meant the sea of life. 

Sad regrets from past existence 
Came like gales of chilling breath ; 



132 A I) n F.AM. 

Shadowed in the forward distance 

Lay the land of Death. 
Now seeming more, now less remote, 
On that dim-seen shore, methought, 
I beheld two hands a space 
Slow unshroud a spectre's face ; 
And my flesh's hair upstood, — 
'Twas mine own similitude. — 



But my soul revived at seeing 

Ocean, like an emerald spark. 
Kindle, while an air-dropt being 

Smiling steer'd my bark 
Heaven-like — yet he look'd as human 

As supernal beauty can, 
More compassionate than woman, 

Lordly more than man. 
And as some sweet clarion's breath 
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death — 
So his accents bade me brook 
The spectre's eyes of icy look, 
Till it shut them — turn'd its head, 
Like a beaten foe, and fled. 

" Types not this." I said, " fair spirit ! 

That my death hour is not come ? 
Say, what days shall I inherit ? — 

Tell my soul their sum." 
" No," he said, " yon phantom's aspect, 



.A DREAM. 133 

Trust me would appall thee worse, 
Held in clearly measured prospect : — 

Ask not for a curse ! 
Make not, for I overbear 
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear 
As thy mortal ear could catch 
The close-brouglit tickings of a watch- 
Make not the untold request 
That 's now revolving in thy breast. 

'Tis to live as^ain, remeasurinsr 

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed, 
In thy second life-time treasuring 

Knowledge from the first. 
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver ! 

Life's career so void of pain, 
As to wish its fitful fever 

New begun again ? 
Could experience, ten times thine, 
Pain from Being disentwine — 
Threads by Fate together spun ? 
Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun? 
No, nor could tliy foresight's glance 
'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. 

Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble— ^ 
Friendship's death-dissever'd ties ; 

Toil to grasp or miss the bubble 
Of Ambition's prize ? 



134 A DREAM. 

Say thj life's new guided action 

Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springs- 
Still would Envj and Detraction 

Double not their stings ? 
"Worth itself is but a charter 
To be mankind's distinguish'd martyr.'* 
— I caught the moral, and cried, " Hail ! 
Spirit ! let us onward sail 
Envying, fearing, hating none — 
Guardian Spirit, steer me on ! " 

1824. 



m 

LIBRARY ^ 

NOV W 1890 

OEP'r OF MINIM. 



VALEDICTORY STANZAS 

TO 

J. P. KEMBLE, Esq. 
COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817. 

Pride of the British stage, 

A long and last adieu ! 
Whose image brought th' heroic age 

Revived to Fancy's view. 
Like fields refresh'd with dewy light 

When the sun smiles his last, 
Thy parting presence makes more bright 

Our memory of the past ; 
And memory conjures feelings up 

That wine or music need not swell. 
As high we lift the festal cup 

To Kemble — fare thee well ! 

His was the spell o'er hearts 

Which only Acting lends, — 
The youngest of the sister Arts, 

Where all their beauty blends : 
For ill can Poetry express 

Full many a tone of thought sublime, 



136 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 

And Painting, mute and motionless, 

Steals but a glance of time. 
But by the mighty actor brought, 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come, — 
Yerse ceases to be airy thought, 

And Sculpture to be dumb. 

Time may again revive. 

But ne'er eclipse the charm, 
When Cato spoke in him alive, 

Or Hotspur kindled warm. 
"What soul was not resign'd entire 

To the deep sorrows of the Moor, — 
What English heart was not on fire 

With him at A gin court ? 
And yet a majesty possess'd 

His transport's most impetuous tone, 
And to each passion of the breast 

The Graces gave their zone. 

High were the task — too high, 

Ye conscious bosoms here ! 
In words to paint your memory 
Of Kemble and of Lear ; 
But who forgets that white discrowned head, 

Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare, 
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed. 
In doubt more touching than despair, 
If 'twas reality he felt? 



VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 137 

Had Sliakspeare's self amidst you been, 
Friends, he had seen you melt, 
And triumph'd to have seen I 

And there was many an hour 

Of blended kindred fame. 
When Siddons's auxiliar power 

And sister magic came. 
Together at the Muse's side 

The tragic paragons had grown— 
They were the children of her pride, 

The columns of her throne, 
And undivided favour ran 

From heart to heart in their applause, 
Save for the gallantry of man 

In lovelier woman's cause. 



Fair as some classic dome, 

Robust and richly graced. 
Your Kemble's spirit was the home 

Of genius and of taste ; 
Taste, like the silent dial's power, 

That, when supernal light is given, 
Can measure inspiration's hour. 

And tell its height in heaven. 
At once ennobled and correct. 

His mind survey'd the tragic page, 
And what the actor could effect. 

The scholar could presage. 



138 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 

These were hh traits of wortli : 

And must we lose them now ! 
And shall the scene no more shew forth 

His sternlj-pleasing brow ! 
Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — 

'Tis all a transient hour below ; 
And we that would detain thee here, 

Ourselves as fleetly go ! 
Yet shall our latest age 

This parting scene review : 
Pride of the British stage, 

A long and last adieu ! 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Most of the popular histories of England, as ■well as of the 
American war, give an authentic account of the desolation 
of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by 
an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of 
the following Poem are connected with that event. The 
testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing 
the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human exist- 
ence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabit- 
ants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of 
the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of Eu- 
ropean with Indian arms converted this terrestrial paradise 
into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the 
ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bear- 
ing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent 
inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796. 



141 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

PART L 

I. 

On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! 

Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall, 

And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring 

Of what thy gentle people did befall; 

Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all 

That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. 

Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall. 

And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, 

Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's 

shore ! 

II. 

Delightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies, 
The happy shepherd swains had nought to do 
But feed their flocks on green declivities. 
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, 
From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, 
With timbrel, when beneath the forest brown, 
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew ; 
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down 
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town. 



142 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



III. 

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes 
His leave, how might you the flamingo see 
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — 
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : 
And every sound of life was full of glee, 
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ; 
While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, 
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and 

then, 
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. 

IV. 

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime 
Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, 
For here the exile met from every clime, 
And spoke in friendship every distant tonguo : 
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung 
Were but divided by the running brook ; 
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung. 
On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook. 
The blue-eyed German changed his sword to prun- 
ing-hook. 

V. 

Nor far some Andalnsian saraband 
Would sound to many a native roundelay— 
But who is he that yet a dearer land 
Remembers, over hills and far away ? 



A 



gertrudp: of Wyoming. 143 

Green Albin ! ^ what tliougli he no more survey 
Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, 
Thy pellochs ^ rolling from the mountain bay, 
Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, 
And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan ' 
roar! 

VI. 

Alas ! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, 
That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief. 
Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! 
Yet found he here a home and glad relief, 
And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, 
That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee : 
And England sent her men, of men the chief, 
Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be. 
To plant the tree of life, — to plant fair Freedom's 
tree! 

VII. 

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp 
Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom; 
Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp. 
Nor seal'd in blood a fellow creature's doom, 
Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb. 
One venerable man, beloved of all, 
Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom. 
To sway the strife, that seldom might befall : 
And Albert was their judge, in patriarchal hall. 

1 Scotland. 

2 The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. 

8 The great whirlpool of the western Hebrides. 



144 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



VITI. 

How reverend was the look, serenely aged, 
He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, 
Where all but kindlj fervours were assuaged, 
XJndimm'd by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! 
And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, 
Some high and haughty features might betray 
A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire 
That fled composure's intellectual ray, 
As iEtna's fires grow dim before the rising day. 

IX. 

I boast no song in magic wonders rife, 

But yet, oh Nature ! is there nought to prize, 

Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life ? 

And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies 

No form with which the soul may sympathize ? — 

Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild 

The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise. 

An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, 

Or bless'd his noonday walk — she was his only chfld. 

X. 

The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek — 
What' though these shades had seen her birth, her 

sire 
A Briton's independence taught to seek 
Far western worlds ; and there his household fire 
The light of social love did long inspire, 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 145 

And many a halcyon day he lived to see 
Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, 
When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she 
"Was gone — and Gertrude climb'd a widow'd 
father's knee. 

XI. 

A loved bequest, — and I may half impart- 
To them that feel the strong paternal tie, 
How like a new existence to his heart 
That living flower uprose beneath his eye, 
Dear as she was from cherub infancy, 
From hours when she would round his garden 

play, 
To time when, as the ripening years went by. 
Her lovely mind could culture well repay. 
And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to 

day. 

XII. 

I may not paint those thousand infant charms : 
(Unconscious fascination, undesign'd !) 
The orison repeated in his arms, 
For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; 
The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, 
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, 
(Tiie playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) 
All uncompanion'd else her heart had gone 
Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue 
summer shone. 
10 



146 GERTRUDE OP WYOMING. 



XTir. 

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, 
When sire and daugliter saw, with fleet descent, 
An Indian from his bark approach their bower, 
Of buskin'd Ihnb, and swarthy hnenment ; 
The red wild feathers on bis brow were blent, 
And bracelets bound the arm that help'd to light 
A boy, who seem'd, as he beside him went, 
Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, 
Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by 
night. 

XIV. 

Yet pensive seem'd the boy for one so young — 
The dimple from his polish'd cheek had fled ; 
"When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, 
Th' Oneyda warrior to the planter said, 
And laid his hand upon the stripling's head, 
*' Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve ; 
The paths of peace my steps have hither led : 
This little nursling, take him to thy love, 
And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the 
■parent dove. 

XV. 

Christian ! I am the foeman of thy foe ; 

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace : 

Upon the Michigan, three moons ago. 

We launch'd our pirogues for the bison chase, 

And with the Hurons planted for a space, 



GERTRCJDE OF WYOMING. 147 

With true and faithful hands, tlie olive-stalk ; 
But snakes are in the bosoms of their race, 
And though they held with us a friendly talk, 
The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their toma- 
hawk ! 

XVI. 

It was encamping on the lake's far port, 
A cry of Areouski ^ broke our sleep, 
Where storm'd an ambush'd foe thy nation's fort, 
And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ; 
But long thy country's war-sign on the steep 
Appear'd through ghastly intervals of light, 
And deathfully their thunders seem'd to sweep, 
Till utter darkness swallow'd up the sight. 
As if a shower of blood had quench'd the fierv 
fight ! 

XVII. 

It slept — it rose again — on high their tower 
Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, 
Then down again it rain'd an ember shower, 
And louder lamentations heard we rise : 
As when the evil Manitou that dries 
Th' Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire. 
In vain the desolated panther flies, 
And howls amidst his wilderness of fire : 
Alas ! too late, we reach'd and smote those IIu- 
rons dire! 

1 The Indian God of War. 



148 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



XVIII. 

But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, 
So (lied their warriors by our battle-brand ; 
And from the tree we, with her child, unbound 
A lonely mother of the Christian land : — 
Her lord — the captain of the British band — 
Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. 
Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand ; 
Upon her child she sobb'd, and swoon'd away, 
Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians 
pray. 

XIX. 

Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls 
Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : 
But she was journeying to the land of souls, 
And lifted up her dying head to pray 
That we should bid an ancient friend convey 
Iler orphan to his home of England's shore ; 
And take, she said, this token far away, 
To one that will remember us of yore, 
When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia 
wore. 

XX. 

And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'd 
With this lorn dove." — A sage's self-command 
Had quell'd the tears from Albert's heart that 

gush'd ; 
But yet his cheek — his agitated hand — 
That shower'd upon the stranger of the land 



GERTKUDE OF WYOMIXG. 119 

No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled 

A soul that was not wont to be unmann'd : 

" And stay," he cried, " dear pilgrim of tbe wiW 

Preserver of my old, my boon companion's rhiI4 f 

XXI. 

Child of a race whose name my bosom warms, 
On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here 
Whose mother oft, a child, has fiU'd these arms. 
Young as thyself, and innocently dear, 
"Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer. 
Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime ! 
How beautiful ev'n now thy scenes appear, 
As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! 
How gone like yesterday these thrice ten yearg 
of time ! 

XXII. 

And Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, 
Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore? 
Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou 
Wert lightest-hearted on his festive floor, 
And first of all his hospitable door 
To meet and kiss me at my journey's end ? 
But where was I when Waldegrave was no more ? 
And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend 
In woes, that ev'n the tribe of deserts was ihy 
friend!" 

XXIII. 

He said — and strain'd unto his heart the boy ;— 
Far differently, the mute Oneyda took 



150 GEKTKUDE OF WYOMINCr. 

His calumet of peace and cup of joy ; 
As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook ; 
TrainM from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier 
The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

XXIV. 

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock 
Of Outalissi's heart disdain'd to grow ; 
As lives the oak unwither'd on the rock 
By storms above, and barrenness below ; 
He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe : 
And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, 
Or laced his mocasins, in act to go, 
A song of parting to the boy he sung, 
"Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly 
tongue. 

x:xv. 

" Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land 
Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, 
Oh ! tell her spirit that the white man's hand 
Hath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ; 
"While I in lonely wilderness shall greet 
Thy little foot-prints — or by traces know 
The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet 
To feed thee with the quarry of my bow. 
And pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain 
roe. 



GERTRUDE OF Wi'OJlIXG. 151 



XXVI. 

Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! 
But should afiliction's storms thy blossom mock. 
Then come again — my own adopted one ! 
And I will graft thee on a noble stock : 
The crocodile, the condor of the rock, 
Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; 
And I will teach thee in the battle's shock, 
To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars. 
And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars ! " 

XXVII. 

So finish'd he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) 
That true to nature's fervid feelings ran ; 
(And song is but the eloquence of truth :) 
Then forth uprose that lone Avay-faring man; 
But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan 
In woods required, whose trained eye was keen, 
As eagle of the wilderness, to scan 
His path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, 
Or ken far friendly huts o^i good savannas green. 

XXVIII. 

Old Albert saw him from the valley's side — 
His pirogue launch'd — his pilgrimage begun — 
Far, like the red-bird's wing he seem'd to 

glide ; 
Then dived, and vanish'd in the woodlands 

dun. 



152 GERTRUDE OF AYYOMING. 

Oft, to that spot by tender memory won, 
Would Albert climb the promontory's height, 
If but a dim sail glimraer'd in the sun ; 
But never more to bless his longing sight, 
Was Outalissi hail'd, Avith bark and plumage 
bright 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

TART n. 

I 

A YALLET from the river shore withdrawn 
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, 
Whose lofty verdure overlook'd his lawn ; 
And waters to their resting-place serene 
Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene : 
(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;) 
So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) 
Have guess'd some congregation of the elves, 
To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for 
themselves. 

II. 

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, 
Nor vistas open'd by the wandering stream ; 
Both where at evening Alleghany views, 
Through ridges burning in her western beam, 
Lake after lake interminably gleam : 
And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam 
Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ; 
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome. 
Or buffalo remote low'd far from human home. 



154 GERTRUDE OF ^YYO^IING. 



III. 

But silent not that adverse eastern path, 
Which saw Aurora's liills th' horizon crown : 
There was the river heard, in bed of wrath, 
(A. precipice of foam from mountahis brown,) 
Like tumults heard from some far distant town ; 
But softening in approach he left his gloom, 
And murmur'd pleasantly, and laid him down 
Te kiss those easy curving banks of bloom. 
That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. 

IV. 

It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had 
On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own 
Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, 
That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon ; 
Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone, 
Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, 
(As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) 
Yet so becomingly th' expression past, 
That each succeeding look was lovelier than the 
last. 

V. 

Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, 
With all its picturesque and balmy grace. 
And fields that were a luxury to roam, 
Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face ! 
Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace 



GERTRUDE OF WYOillNG. 155 

Had bound tliy lovely waist with woman's zone, 
The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace 
To hills with high magnolia overgrown, 
And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. 

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, 

That thus apostrophized its viewless scene : 

" Land of my father's love, my mother's birth ! 

The home of kindred I have never seen ! 

We know not other — oceans are between : 

Yet say, far friendly hearts ! from whence we came, 

Of us does oft remembrance intervene ? 

My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim ; — 

But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. 

VIT. 

And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace 
In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, 
How can I choose but wish for one embrace 
Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong 
My mother's looks, — perhaps her likeness strong? 
Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe, 
From features of thy own related throng, 
An image of thy face my soul could draw ! 
And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw ! * 

VIII. 

Yet deem not Gertrude sigh'd for foreign joy ; 
To soothe a father's couch her only care, 



156 GERTRUDE OF WYOillNG. 

And keep his reverend head from all annoy ; 
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, 
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair; 
"While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, 
^yhile boatmen caroll'd to the fresh-blown air, 
And woods a horizontal shadow threw. 
And early fox appear'd in momentary view. 

IX. 

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, 
Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; 
Tradition had not named its lonely spot ; 
But here (methinks) might India's sons explore 
Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore, 
Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime 
To human art a sportive semblance bore. 
And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime, 
Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd 
by time. 

X. 

But high in amphitheatre above. 
Gay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw ; 
Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove 
As if instinct with living spirit grew, 
Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; 
And now suspended was the pleasing din, 
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew, 
Like the first note of organ heard within 
Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 157 



XI. 

It was in this lone valley she would charm 

The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had 

strown ; 
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm 
On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown ; 
And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, 
Which every heart of human mould endears ; 
With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles 

alone, 
And no intruding visitation fears, 
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her 

sweetest tears. 

XII. 

And nought within the grove was heard or seen 
But stock-doves plaining through its gloom pro- 

found, 
Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, 
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; 
When, lo ! there enter'd to its inmost ground 
A youth, the stranger of a distant land ; 
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ; 
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd. 
And California's gales his roving bosom faun'd. 

XIII. 

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, 
He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, 



158 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, 
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space 
Those downcast features : — she her lovely face 
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame 
Wore youth and manhood's intermingled grace: 
Iberian seem'd his boot — his robe the same. 
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks be- 
came. 

XIV. 

For Albert's home he sought — her finger fair 
Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. 
Returning from the copse he soon was there ; 
And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green 

wood ; 
Nor joyless, by the converse, understood 
Between the man of age and pilgrim young, 
That gay congeniality of mood, 
And early liking from acquaintance sprung; 
Full fluently conversed their guest in England's 

tongue. 

XV. 

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste 

Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain, 

While he each fair variety retraced 

Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. 

Now happy Switzer's liills — romantic Spain, — 

Gay lilied fields of France, — or, more refined, 

The soft Ausonia's monumental reign ; 

Nor less each rural ima";e he desio;n'd 

Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 159 

XVI. 

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ; 
Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,— 
The loneliness of earth that overawes, — 
Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak 
Nor livinjr voice nor motion marks around ; 
But storks that to tlie boundless forest shriek. 
Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf j)rofound, 
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado 
sound. 

XVII. 

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would 

ply 

Each earnest question, and his converse court ; 
But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why 
A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. 
" In England thou hast been, — and, by report. 
An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have 

known. 
Sad tale ! — when latest fell our frontier fort, — 
One innocent — one soldier's child — alone 
Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as 

my own. 

XVIII. 

Young Ilei.ry Waldegrave ! three delightful years 
These very walls his infixnt sports did see. 
But most I loved him when his parting tears 
Alternately bedew'd my child and me : 



ICO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee; 
Nor half its grief his little heart could hold ; 
By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, 
They tore him from us when but twelve years old, 
And scarcely for his loss have I been yet con- 
soled!" 

XIX. 

His face the wanderer hid — ^but could not hide 
A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; 
"And speak ! mysterious stranger ! (Gertrude 

cried) 
It is ! — it is ! — I knew — I knew him well ! 
'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to 

tell ! " 
A burst of joy the father's lips declare ! 
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell ; 
At once his open arms embraced the pair. 
Was never group more blest in this wide world 

of care. 

XX. 

"And will ye pardon then (replied the youth) 
Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire ? 
I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth, 
The very fortunes of your house inquire ; 
Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire 
Impart, and I my weakness all betray, 
For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, 
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day, 
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass 
away. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 161 



XXI. 

But here ye live, ye bloom, — in each dear face, 
The changing hand of time I may not blame ; 
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, 
And here, of beauty perfected the frame : 
A.nd well I know your hearts are still the same — 
They could not change — ^ye look the very way. 
As when an orphan first to you I came. 
And have ye heard of my poor guide I pray .'' 
Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous 
day?" 

XXII. 

" And art thou here ? or is it but a dream ? 
And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us 

more ? " — 
" No, never ! thou that yet dost lovelier seem 
Than aught on earth — than ev'n thyself of 

yore — 
I will not part thee from thy father's shore ; 
But we shall cherish him with mutual arms. 
And hand in hand again the path explore 
Which every ray of young remembrance warms, 
While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth 

and charms ! " 

XXIII. 

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy 
Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, 
Where all was odorous scent and harmony, 
11 



162 GERTRUDE OF AYYOMING. 

And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight : 
There, if, gentle Love ! I read aright 
The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond, 
'Twas listening to these accents of delight, 
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond 
Expression's power to paint, all languishingly 
fond — 

XXIV. 

" Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! 
Whom I would rather in this desert meet, 
Scorning, and scorn'd by fortune's power, than 

own 
Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my feet! 
Turn not from me thy breath more exquisite 
Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine — to 

please — 
Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, 
And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, 
When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas." 

XXV. 

Then would that home admit them — happier far 

Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon, 

While, here and there, a solitary star 

Flush'd in the darkening firmament of June ; 

And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, 

Ineffable, which I may not portray ; 

For never did the hymenean moon 

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway, 

In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. 



163 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

PART m. 

I. 

O Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 

Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 

And here thou art a god indeed divine. 

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine, 

The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire I 

Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! 

Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, 

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time 

expire. 

II. 

Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove 
And pastoral savannas they consume ! 
While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove, 
Delights, in fancifully wild costume, 
Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; 
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; 
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom, 
'Tis but the breath of heaven — the blessed air — 
And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to 
share. 



164 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

III. 

TTliat though the sportive dog oft round them note, 
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing ; 
Yet who, in Love's own presence, would devote 
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring, 
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring? 
No ! — nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; 
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing, 
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, 
That shade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first 
her vows. 

IV. 

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, 
Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, 
Where welcome hills shut out the universe, 
And pines their lawny walk encompass round ; 
There, if a pause delicious converse found, 
'Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole, 
(Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drown'd) 
That come what may, while life's glad pulse/3 

roll, 
Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. 

V. 

And in the visions of romantic youth, 
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! 
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? 
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below ! 
And must I change my song ? and must I show, 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 1G5 

Sweet Wyoming ! the day when thou wert doom'd, 
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low ! 
"When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd, 
Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes 
gloom'd ! 

VI. 

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, 

When Transatlantic Liberty arose, 

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, 

But Avrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes. 

Amidst the strife of frati-icidal foes ; 

Her birth-star was the light of burning plains ;^ 

Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows 

From kindred hearts — the blood of British veins — 

And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. 

VII. 

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, 
Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams. 
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, 
That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly 

dreams I 
Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams 
Portentous light ! and music's voice is dumb ; 
Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, 
Or midnight streets reecho to the drum, 
That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstain'd 

fields to come. 

1 Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil 
war. 



166 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

VIII. 

It was in truth a momentary pang ; 

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! 

First Vvhen in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, 

A husband to the battle doom'd to go ! 

" Nay meet not thou (she cried) thy kindred foe ! 

But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand ! " 

"Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know, 

"Would feel like mine the stin-matizins: brand ! 

Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band ' 

IX. 

But shame — but flight — a recreant's name to 

prove. 
To hide in exile ignominious fears ; 
Say, ev'n if this I brouk'd, the public love 
Thy father's bosom to his home endears : 
And how could I his few remaining years. 
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child ? " 
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers : 
At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, 
And, pale through tears suppress'd, the mournful 

beauty smiled. 

X. 

Night came, — and in their lighted bower, full lata, 
The joy of converse had endured — when, hark ! 
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; 
And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark, 



GERTRUDE OF WiOMING. 167 

A form had rusli'd amidst them from the dark, 
And spr(!ad his arms, — and fell upon the floor : 
Of aged strength his limbs retain'd the mark ; 
But desolate he look'd, and famish'd poor, 
As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert 
shore. 

XI. 

Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and 

arch'd : 
A spirit from the dead they deem him first : 
To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and 

parch'd, 
Frofti lips, as by some powerless dream accursed 
Emotions unintelligible burst ; 
And long his filmed eye is red and dim : 
At length the pity-profier'd cup his thirst 
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering 

limb, 
TV hen Albert's hand he grasp'd ; — but Albert 

knew not him — 



XII. 

*And hast thou then foi-got," (he cried forlorn, 
And eyed the group with half indignant air,) 
" ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the mom 
^Yhen I with thee the cup of peace did share? 
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair» 
That now is white as A[)palachia's snow ; 
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, 



168 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

And age hath bow'd me, and the torturing foe, 
Bring me my boy — and he will his dehverer 
know!" 

XIII. 

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, 

Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew ; 

" Bless thee my guide ! " — but backward, as he 

came, 
The chief his old bewilder*d head withdrew. 
And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him 

through. 
'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile con- 
trol — 
The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : 
At last delight o'er all his features stole, 
" It is — my own," he cried, and clasp'd him to his 
soul. 

XIV. 

" Yes ! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then 
The bowstring of my spirit was not slack. 
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd 

men, 
I bore thee like the quiver on my back. 
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; 
Nor foeraan then, nor cougar's crouch I fear'd,* 
For I was strong as mountain cataract : 

i Cougar, the American tiger. 



i 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 169 

And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd, 
Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts 
appear'd ? 

XV. 

Then welcome be my death-song, and my death ! 
Since I have seen thee, and again embraced." 
And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath ; 
But with affectionate and eager haste, 
"Was every arm outstretcli'd around their guest, 
To welcome and to bless his aged head. 
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; 
And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed 
On wounds with fever'd joy that more profusely 
bled. 

XVI. 

" But this is not a time," — he started up. 

And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand — 

" This is no time to fill the joyous cup, 

The Mammoth comes, — the foe, — the Monster 

Brandt, — 
"With all his howling desolating band ; — 
These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine 
Awake at once, and silence half your land. 
Red is the cup they drink ; but not with wine : 
Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning 

shine ! 

XVII. 

Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 
Gainst Brandt himself 1 went to battle forth i 



170 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Accursed Brandt ! he left of all m j tribe 
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : 
No ! not the dog that watch'd mj household 

hearth, 
Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains! 
All perish'd ! — I alone am left on earth ! 
To whom nor relative nor blood remains, 
No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human 
veins I 

XVIII. 

But go ! — and rouse your warriors, for, if right 
These old bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signs 
Of striped and starred banners, on yon height 
Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines — 
Some fort embattled by your country shines : 
Deep roars th' innavigable gulf below 
Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. 
Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; 
Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the 
foe!" 

XIX. 

Scarce had he utter'd — when Heaven's verge 

extreme 
Reverberates the bomb's decending star, — 
And sounds that mingled laugh, — and shout, — ■ 

and scream, — 
To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, 
Kung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. 
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd ; 
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; 



k 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 171 

While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd : 
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet 
wail'd. 

XX. 

Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung 
The bandit groups, in one Yesuvian glare ; 
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock 

unrung 
Told legible that midnight of despair. 
She faints, — she falters not, — th' heroic fair, — 
As he the sword and plume in haste array'd. 
One short embrace — he clasp'd his dearest care — 
But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the 

glade ? 
Joy, joy ! Columbia's friends are trampling through 

the shade ! 

XXI. 

Then came of every race the mingled swarm, 
Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight 

grass, 
With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; 
As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass, 
Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, 
Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines : 
And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, 
His plumed host the dark Iberian joins — 
Ajid Scotia's sword beneath tlie Highland thistle 

shines. 



172 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



XXII. 

And in the buskin'd hunters of the deer, 
To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal 

throng : — 
Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and 

cheer, 
Old Outallssi woke his battle-song, 
And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, 
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, 
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long, 
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts, 
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. — 

XXIII. 

Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, 
Pale on his venerable brow its rays 
Of martyr light the conflagration throws ; 
One hand upon his lovely child he lays, 
And one the uncover'd crowd to silence sways ; 
While, though the battle flash is faster driven, — 
Unaw'd, with eye unstartled by the blaze. 
He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, — 
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be 
forgiven. 

XXIV. 

Short time is now for gratulating speech : 

And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began 

Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach, 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 173. 

Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan 
With brow relax'd to love ? And murmurs ran, 
As round and round their willing ranks they drew, 
From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. 
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, 
Nor wept, but as &he bade her mother's grave 
adieu ! 

XXV. 

Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower, 
That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd 
Defiance on the roving Indian power, 
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound 
"With embrasure emboss'd, and armour crown'd, 
And arrowy frizc, and wedged ravelin, 
Wove like a diadem its tracery round 
The lofty summit of that mountain green ; 
Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant 
scene. 

XXVI. 

A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun, 
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; 
And for the business of destruction done. 
Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow : 
There, sad spectatress of her country's woe I 
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm. 
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of 

snow 
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm 
Enclosed, tliat felt her heart, and hush'd its wild 

alarm! 



174 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



XXVIT. 

But short that contemplation — sad and short 
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! 
Beneath the very shadow of the fort, 
Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners 

flew; 
Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew 
Was near? — yet there, with lust of murd'rous 

deeds, 
Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view. 
The ambush'd foeman's eye — his volley speeds. 
And Albert — Albert falls ! the dear old father 

bleeds ! 

XXVIII. 

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd ; 
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone. 
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound. 
These drops ? — Oh, God ! the life-blood is her own ! 
And faltering, on herWaldegrave's bosom thrown — 
" Weep not, O Love ! " — she cries, " to see me 

bleed — 
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed 
These wounds ; — yet thee to leave is death, is 

death indeed ! 



XXTX. 

Clasp me a little longer on the brink 

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 



4 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 175 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh ! 

think, 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 
And friend to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness. 
And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in 

dust! 

XXX. 

Go, Henry, go not back when I depart, 
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 
Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove 
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. 
And must this parting be our very last ? 
No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is 
past. — 

XXXI. 

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,— 

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, 

If I had lived to smile but on the birth 

Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be none, 

In future times — no gentle little one. 

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 

Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run, 

A sweetness in the cup of death to be. 

Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee I ^^ 



176 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



XXXII. 

Husli'd were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their 

bland 
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt 
With love that could not die ! and still his hand 
She presses to the heart no more that felt. 
Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt, 
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. 
Mute, gazing, agonizing, as he knelt, — 
Of them that stood encircling his despair, 
He heard some friendly words ; — but knew not 

what they were. 

XXXIII. 

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives 
A faithful band. "With solemn rites between 
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, 
And in their deaths had not divided been. 
Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, 
"Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : — 
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen 
To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved 

shroud — 
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. 

XXXIV. 

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid 

Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth ; 

Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid 



I 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 177 

His face on earth ; — him watch'd, in gloomy- 
ruth, 
His woodland guide : but words had none to soothe 
The grief that knew not consolation's name : 
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, 
He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that 

came 
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! 

XXXV. 

"And I could weep ; " — th' Oneyda chief 

His descant wildly thus begun : 

" But that I may not stain with grief 

The death-song of my father's son, 

Or bow this head in woe ! 

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath I 

To-morrow Areouski's breath, 

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) 

Shall light us to the foe : 

And we shall share, my Christian boy ! 

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 

XXXVI. 

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 
By milder genii o'er the deep. 
The spirits of the white man's heaven 
Forbid not thee to weep : — 
Nor will the Christian host, 
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 
To see thee, on the battle's eve, 
12 



17B GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Lamenting, take a mournful leave 
Of her who loved thee most : 
She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 
Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 

XXXVIT. 

To-morrow let us do or die ! 

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, 

Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, 

Shall Outalissi roam the world ? 

Seek we thy once-loved home ? 

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : 

Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! 

Cold is the hearth witliin their bowers ^ 

And should we thither roam. 

Its echoes, and its empty tread, 

Would sound like voices from the dead! 

XXXVIII. 

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, 

Whose streams my kindred nation quaflTd, 

And by my side, in battle true, 

A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? 

Ah ! there, in desolation cold. 

The desert serpent dwells alone, 

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, 

And stones themselves to ruin grown. 

Like me, are death-like old. 

Then seek we not their camp, — for there — 

The silence dwells of my despair ! 



aERTRCDE OF WYOMING. 179 



XXXIX. 

But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou 
In glory's fires shall dry thy tears ; 
Ev'n from the land of shadows now 
My father's awful ghost appears, 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; 
He bids my soul for battle thirst — 
He bids me dry the last — the first — 
The only tears that ever burst 
From Outalissi's soul ; 
Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-sonic of an Indian chief!" 



In 1809, *•' Gertrude" appeared, dedicated to Campbell's 
steady friend, Lord Holland. The cordial reception it re- 
ceived formed a bright epoch in the Poet's life. On the same 
day the work was published appeared also an article in the 
Edinburgh Keview opening with a brilliant eulogium on tha 
taste and talent of the author. " We rejoice once more," 
said the writer, " to see a polished and pathetic poem in the 
old style of English pathos and poetry. This is of the pitch 
of the 'Castle of Indolence,' and the finer parts of Spenser, 
with more feeling in many places than the first, and more 
condensation and diligent finisliing than the latter." Then 
pointing attention to the admired poetry of the day, there 
was added: "We have endeavoured on former occasions to 
do justice to the force and originality of these brilliant pro- 
ductions, as well as t") the genius fitted for higher things of 



180 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

thoir authors; and have little doubt of being soon called 
upon for a renewed tribute of applause. But we cannot help 
saying, in the mean time, that the work before us belongs to 
a class which comes nearer to our conception of pure and 
perfect poetry. Such productions do not, indeed, strike so 
Btrong a blow as the vehement efl'usions of our modern Trou- 
veurs; but they are calculated, we think, to please more 
deeply, and to call out more jjermanently those traits of na- 
ture in which the delight of poetry will be found to consist. 
They may not be so loudly nor so universally applauded, but 
♦.heir fame will probably endure longer, and they will be 
oftener recalled to mingle with the reveries of solitary leisure, 
or the consolations of real sorrow. There is a soi*t of poetry, 
no doubt, as there is a sort of flowei's, which can bear the 
broad sun and the ruffling winds of the world : which thrive 
under the hands and eyes of indiscriminate multitudes, and 
please as much in hot and crowded saloons as in their own 
sheltered repositories; but the finer and the purer sorts blos- 
som only in the shade, and never give out their sweets but to 
those who seek them amid the quiet and seclusion of the 
scenes which gave them birth. There are torrents and cas- 
cades which attract the admiration of tittering parties, and 
of which even the busy must turn aside to catch a transient 
glance; but the haunted stream steals through a still and 
solitary landscape, and its beauties are never revealed but to 
liim who strays in calm contemplation, by its course, and 
follows its wanderings with undiminished aud uuimpatieat 
adrjiration," 



181 



LINES 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE niGHLAND 
SOCIETY OF LONDON, WHEN MET TO COM- 
MEMORATE THE 2IST OF MARCH, THE 
DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. 

Pledge to the much -loved land that gave us 
birth ! 

Invincible romantic Scotia's shore ! 
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth ! 

And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore ! 

And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give, 
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's 
sigh ! 

Who would not envy such as Moore to live ? 
And died he not as heroes wish to die ? 

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal. 
To us his bright career too short was given; 

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul 
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven I 

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain 

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn 

For him ! — How oft on far Corunna's plain 
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn ! 



182 LINES. 

Peace to the mighty dead ! — our bosom thanks 
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire ! 

Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks, 
Of Roman garb and more than Roman lire . 

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd, 

Dear symbol wild ! on Freedom's hills it grows, 

Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, 
And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes. 

Joy to the band^ this day on Egypt's coast, 
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor, 

And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host, 
Baptiz'd Invincible in Austria's gore ! 

Joy for the day on red Yimeira's strand. 
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed. 

First of Britannia's host her Highland band 
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost 
closed ! 

Is there a soil of generous England here 
Or fervid Erin ? — he with us shall join, 

To pray that in eternal union dear. 

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! 

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn. 
As rocks resist the billows round their shore; 

Types of a race who shall to time unborn 
Their country leave unconquer'd as of yore ! 

1809. 
1 The 42d Regiment. 



183 



STAXZAS 

TO THE MEMORY OF TUE SPANISH PATRIOTS 

LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE 

REGENCY AND THE DUKE 

OF ANGOULEME. 

Brave men who at the Trocadero fell — 
Beside vour cannons conquer'd not, though slain, 
There is a victory in dying well 
For Freedom, — and ye have not died in vain ; 
For, come what may, there shall be hearts in 

Spain 
To honour, ay,, embrace your martyr'd lot, 
Cursing the Bi}z;ot's and the Bourbon's chain, 
And looking on your graves, though trophied not, 
As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make 

the spot ! 

What though your cause be baffled — freemen cast 
In dungeons — dragg'd to death, or forced to flee ; 
Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast — 
The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree ; 
And short your orgies of revenge shall be, 
Cowl'd demons of the Inquisitorial cell ! 
Earth shudders at your victory, — for ye 



184 STANZAS. 

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that 

fell, 
The baser, ranker sprung, Autoclithones of Hell ! 

Go to your bloody rites again — bring back 
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, 
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack ; 
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ; — 
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ; — 
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal 
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, 
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel 
No eye may search — no tongue may challenge or 
reveal ! 

i''et laugh not in your carnival of crime 
Too proudly, ye oppressors ! — Spain was free, 
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime 
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty ; 
And these even parting scatter as they flee 
Thoughts — influences, to live in hearts unborn, 
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key 
From Persecution — sliow her mask off-torn, 
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of 
Scorn. 

Glory to them that die in this great cause ; 
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame. 
Or shape of death, to shroud them from ap- 
plause : — 



k 



SONG OF THE GREEKS. 185 

No ! — manglers of the martyr's earthly frame ! 
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame ! 
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some 
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal 

flame. 
Lrong trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, 
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come. 

1823. 



SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

Again to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree — 

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the 

free: 
For the cross of our faith is replanted. 
The pale dying crescent is daunted, 
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's 

slaves 
lilay be wasli'd out in blood from our forefathers* 

graves. 
Their spirits are hovering o'er us. 
And the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah ! what though no succour advances, 
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 



186 SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

Are stretch'd in our aid — be the combat our 

own! 
And we '11 perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 
For we Ve sworn by our Country's assaulters, 
By the virgins they 've dragg'd from our altars, 
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
That, living, we shall be victorious. 
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not ; 

The sword that we 've drawn we will sheathe 

not! 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid. 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
Earth may hide — waves engulf — fire consume us, 
But they shall not to slavery doom us : 
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves ; 
But we 've smote them already with fire on the 

waves. 
And new triumphs on land are before us, 
To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 

This day shall ye blush for its story, 

Or brighten your lives with its glory. 

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, 

Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in 

their hair ? 
Accursed may his memory blacken. 
If a coward there be that would slacken 



SONG OF TnE GREEKS. 187 

Till we 've trampled the turban, and shown our- 
selves worth 

Bein"- sprung from and named for the godlike of 
earth. 

Strike home, and the world shall revere us 

As heroes descended from heroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion 

Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean ; 

Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, 

And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's 
spring : 

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, 

That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness ; 

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white- 
waving arras, 

Singing joy to the brave that delivered their 
charms. 

When the blood of yon jNIussulman cravens 

Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. 



188 



ODE TO AVINTER. 

WnEN first the fiery-mantled sun 
His heavenly race began to run ; 
Round the earth and ocean blue, 
His children four the Seasons flew. 
First, in green apparel dancing. 

The young Spring smiled with angel grace; 
Rosy Summer next advancing, 

Rush'd into her sire's embrace : — 
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to his smiles, 
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep. 

On India's citron-cover'd isles : 
More remote and buxom-brown. 

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his 
throne ; 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
But howling AVinter fled afar, 
To hills that prop the polar star, 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
With barren Darkness by his side. 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 

Whirls to death the roaring whale. 



ODE TO WINTEK. 189 

Round the hall wliere Kunic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale ; 
Save when adown the ravaged globe 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, 

And trampling on her faded form : — 
Till lijjht's returninjj lord assume 

The shaft that drives him to his polar field. 
Of power to pierce his raven plume 

And crystal-cover'd shield. 
Oh, sire of storms ! wliose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye 
Implores thy dreadful deity, 
Archangel ! power of desolation ! 

Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath mortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart ? 
Then, sullen "Winter, hear my prayer, 
And gently rule the ruin'd year; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 
Nor freeze the w^retch's falling tear ; — 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, 
And gently on the orphan head 
Of innocence descend. — 
But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! 
The sailor on his airy shrouds ; 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep. 
And spectres walk along the deep. 



190 LINES. 

Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 

Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan ; 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. 
Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 

May spare the victim fallen low ; 
But man will ask no truce to death, — 

No bounds to human woe. 



LIN^ES. 

SPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEA- 
TRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE 
AFTER THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS 
CHARLOTTE, 1817. 

Britons ! although our task is but to show 
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe, 
Think not we come this night without a part 
In that deep sorrow of the public heart. 
Which like a shade hath darken'd every place, 
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face ! 
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles, 
That toU'd a requiem from the solemn aisles, 



LINES. 191 

For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, 
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. 
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas ! 
That ev'n these walls, ere many months should 

pass, 
Wliich but return sad accents for her now, 
Perliaps had witness'd her benignant brow, 
Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on 

high. 
In bursts of British love and loyalty. 
But, Britain ! now thy chief, thy people mourn, 
yVnd Claremont's home of love is left forlorn : — 
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt 
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt 
A wound that every bosom feels its own,^^ — 
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown — 
The most beloved and most devoted bride 
Torn from an agonized husband's side. 
Who " long as Memory holds her seat " shall view 
That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, 
"When the fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith, 
And beam'd affection in the trance of death. 
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld. 
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd ; 
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high 
And banner'd arch of England's chivalry. 
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, 
Tiie sacred march, and sable-vested wall, — 
These were not rites of inexpressive show, 
But hallow'd as the types of real woe ! 



192 LINES. 

Daujrhter of Eno^land ! for a nation sisHs, 
A nation's heart, went with thine obgequics ! — 
And oft shall time revert a look of grief 
On thine existence, beautiful and brief. 
Fair spirit ! send thy blessing from above 
On realms where thou art canonized by love ! 
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind, 
The peace that angels lend to human kind; 
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel 
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal — 
A loyalty that touches all the best 
And loftiest principles of England's breast ! 
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb- 
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom ! 
They shall describe thy life — thy form portray; 
But all the love that mourns thee swept away, 
*Tis not in language or expressive arts 
To paint — ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts I 



193 



LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 

Br strangers left upon a lonely shore, 

Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead ; 

For child to weep, or widow to deplore, 
There never came to his unburied head : — 
All from his dreary liabitation fled. 

Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve 

Launch on that water by the witches* tower, 

Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave 
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower 
For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour. 

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! 

Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinish'd road. 
To feel the step-dame buffetings of fate, 

And render back thy being's heavy load. 

Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd 
In thy devoted bosom — and the hand 

That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone 
To deeds of mercy. Who may understand 

Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ? — 

He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. 

1801. 

13 



194 



REULLURA.1 

Star of the morn and eve, 

Reullura shone like thee, 
And well for her might Aodh grieve, 

The dark-attired Culdee. 
Peace to their shades ! the pure Culdees 

Were Albjn's earliest priests of God, 
Ere yet an island of her seas 

By foot of Saxon monk was trod, 
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry 
Were barr'd from wedlock's holy tie. 
*Twas then that Aodh, famed afar. 

In lona preach'd the word with power, 
And Reullura, beauty's star, 

Was the partner of his bower. 

But, Aodh, the roof lies low. 

And the thistle-down waves bleaching, 
And the bat flits to and fro 

Where the Gael once heard thy preaching ; 
And fallen is each column'd aisle 

Where the chiefs and the people knelt. 

1 Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies " beautiful star.*' 



RKULLURA. 195 

*Twas near tliat temple's goodly pile 

That honoured of men they dwelt. 
For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, 
And bright Reullura's eyes oft saw 

The veil of fate uplifted. 
Alas, with what visions of awe 

Her soul in that hour was gifted — 
When pale in the temple and faint. 

With Aodh she stood alone 
By the statue of an aged Saint ! 

Fair sculptured was the stone, 
It bore a crucifix ; 

Fame said it once had graced 
A Christain temple, which the Picts 

In the Britons' land laid waste : 
The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, 

Had hither the holy relic brought, 
ReuUura eyed the statue's face. 
And cried, " It is, he sh.all come. 
Even he, in this very place, 

To avenge my mai-tjrdom. 

For, woe to the Gael people ! 

Ulvfagre is on the main. 
And lona shall look from tower and steeple 
. On the coming ships of the Dane ; 
And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks 

With the spoiler's grasp entwine ? 
No ! some shall have shelter in caves and 
rocks, 



196 REULLURA^ 

And the deep sea sliall be mine. 
Baffled hy me shall the Dane return, 
And here shall his torch in the temple bum 
Until that holy man shall plough 

The waves from Innisfail. 
His sail is on the deep e'en now, 

And swells to the southern gale." 

** Ah ! know'st thou not, my bride," 

The hoi J Aodh said, 
" That the Saint whose form we stand beside 
Has for ages slept with the dead ? " 
*' He liveth, he liveth," she said again, 

" For the span of his life tenfold extends 
Beyond the wonted years of men. 

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends 
That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth; 
The oak is decay'd with age on earth, 
"Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him ; 

And his parents remember the day of dread 
"When the sun on the cross look'd dim, 

And the graves gave up their dead. 
Yet preaching from clime to clime, 

He hath roam'd the earth for ages, 
And hither he shall come in time 

When the wrath of the heathen rages, 
In time a remnant from the sword— 

Ah ! but a remnant to deliver ; 
Yet, blest be the name of the Lord ! 

His martyrs shall go into bhss for ever. 



i 



REULLURA. 197 

Lochlin,^ appall'd, shall put up her steel, 
And thou shalt embark on the boundinjr keel ; 
Safe shall thou pass through her hundred ships, 

With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, 
And the Lord will instruct thy lips 

To preach in Innisfail." ^ 

The sun, now about to set, 

Was burning o'er Tiree, 
And no gathering cry rose yet 

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea, 
Whilst ReuUura saw far rowers dip 

Their oars beneath the sun, 
And the phantom of many a Danish ship, 

Where ship tliere yet was none. 
And the shield of ahirm was dumb, 
Nor did their warning till midnight come. 
When watch-fires burst from across the main, 

From Rona, and Uist, and Skye, 
To tell that the ships of the Dane 

And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh. 

Our islemen arose from slumbers. 

And buckled on their arms ; 
But few, alas ! were their numbers 

To Lochlin's mailed swarms. 
And the blade of the bloody Norse 

Has fiU'd the shores of the Gael 

1 Denmark. 2 Ireland. 



198 REULLURA. 

With man J a floating corse, 

And with many a woman's wail. 
They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch, 
And the holy men of lona's church 
In the temple of God lay slain ; 

All but Aodh, the last Culdee, 
But bound with many an iron chain, 

Bound in that church was he. 
And where is Aodh's bride ? 

Rocks of the ocean flood ! 
Plunged she not from your heights in pride, 

And mock'd the men of blood? 
Then Ulvfagre and his bands 

In the temple lighted their banquet up, 
And the print of tlieir blood-red hands 

"Was left on the altar cup. 
'Twas then that the Korseman to Aodh said, 
" Tell where thy church's treasure 's laid, 
Or I '11 hew thee limb from limb." 

As he spoke the bell struck three, 
And every torch grew dim 

That lighted their revelry. 

But the torches again burnt bright, 

And brighter than before, 
When an aged man of majestic height 

Enter'd tlie temple door. 
Hush'd was the revellers' sound, 

They were struck as mute as the dead, 
And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound 



REULLURA. 199 

Of his footsteps' measured tread. 
Nor word was spoken by one beholder, 
"Whilst he flung his white robe back o*er hia 

shoulder, 
And stretching his arms — as eath 

Unriveted Aodh's bands, 
As if the gyves had been a wreath 

Of willows in his hands. 

All saw the stranger's similitude 

To the ancient statue's form ; 
The Saint before his own image stood, 

And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm. 
Then up rose the Danes at last to deliver 

Their chief, and shouting with one accord, 
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, 

They lifted the spear and sword. 
And levell'd their spears in rows. 
But down went axes and spears and bows, 
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd, 

The archer's hand on the string was stopt. 
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind. 

Their lifted weapons dropt. 
The Saint then gave a signal mute. 

And thouj^h Ulvfa^re will'd it not, 
lie came and stood at the statue's foot, 

Spell-riveted to the spot, 
Till hands invisible shook the wall. 

And the tottering image was dash'd 
Down from its lofty pedestal. 



200 REULLURA. 

On Ulvfagre's helm it crashed — 
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, 
It crush'd as millstones crush the grain. 
Tlien spoke the Saint, whilst all and each 

Of the Heathen trembled round, 
And the pauses amidst his speech 

Were as awful as the sound : 

" Go back, ye wolves ! to your dens " (he cried), 

"And tell the nations abroad, 
How the fiercest of your herd has died, 

That slaughter'd the flock of God. 
Gather him bone by bone. 

And take with you o'er the flood 
The fra^jments of that avens^noj stone 

That drank his heathen blood. 
These are the spoils from lona's sack, 

The only spoils ye shall carry back ; 
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword 

Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock. 
And I come in the name of the Lord 

To deliver a remnant of his flock." 

A remnant was calFJ together, 

A doleful remnant of the Gael, 
And the Saint in the ship that had brought him 
hither 

Took the mourners to Innisfail. 
Unscathed they left lona's strand. 

When the opal mom flrst flush'd the sky, 



REULLURA. 201 

For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, 

And look'd on them silentlj ; 
Safe from their hiding-places came 
Orphans and mothers, child and dame : 
But, alas ! when the search for Reullura spread, 

No answering voice was given. 
For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, 

And her spirit was in Heaven. 

1824. 



202 



THE TUKKISn LADY. 

Ttvas the hour when rites unholy 
Call'd each Pajnim voice to prajer, 

And the star that faded slowly 
Left to dews the freshen'd air. 

Day her sultry fires had wasted, 

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ; 

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted 
Half oblivion of his woes. 

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace 
Came an Eastern lady bright : 

She, in spite of tyrants jealous, 
Saw and loved an English knight 

" Tell me, captive, why in anguish 
Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, 

Where poor Christians as they languish 
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell ? " — 

" 'Twas on Transylvania's Bannet, 
When the Crescent shone afar, 



J 



THE TURKISH LADY. 203 

Like a pale disastrous planet 
O'er the purple tide of war — 

In that day of desolation, 

Lady, I was captive made ; 
Bleeding for my Christian nation 

By the walls of high Belgrade." 

•' Captive ! could the brightest jewel 
From my turban set thee free ? " 

" Lady, no ! — the gift were cruel, 
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee. 

Say, fair princess ! would it grieve thee 
Christian chmes sliould we behold ? " — 

" Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave thee 
Were thy ransom paid in gold ! " 

Now in Heaven's blue expansion 

Rose the midnight star to view. 
When to quit her father's mansion 

Thrice she wept, and bade adieu ! 

" Fly we then, while none discover ! 

Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride ! " — 
Soon at Rhodes the British lover 

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride. 

1800. 



204 



THE BRA YE ROLAXD. 

The brave Roland ! — the brave Roland ! — 
False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand 

That he had fall'n in fight ; 
And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain, 
O loveliest maid of Allemayne ! 

For the loss of thine own true knight. 

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil, 
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale ? 

For her vow had scarce been sworn. 
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, 
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung — 

'Twas her own dear warrior's horn ! 

"Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed — shall brodk I 
She would have hung upon his neck, 

Had he come but yester-even ! 
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms, 
That shall never, never fill his arms, ■ 

Or meet him but in heaven. ^ 

Yet Roland the brave — Roland the ti:ue — 
He could not bid that spot adieu ; 

It was dear still midst his woes ; 



THE BRAVE ROLAND. 205 

For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air, 
And to think she bless'd him in her prayer, 
When the Halleluiah rose. 

There 's yet one window of that pile, 
Which he built above the Nun*s green isle ; 

Thence sad and oft look'd he 
(When the chant and organ sounded slow) 
On the mansion of his love below, 

For herself he might not see. 

She died ! — he sought the battle-plain ; 
Her image fiU'd his dying brain, 

When he fell and wish'd to fall : 
And her name was in his latest sigh. 
When Roland, the flower of chivalry. 

Expired at Roncevall. 

1820. 



206 



THE SPECTRE BOAT. 

A BALLAD. 

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely 
maid forlorn, 

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blush- 
ing cheek from scorn. 

One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted 
bower of love, 

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and 
the birds sang sweet above. 

But the scene was swiftly changed into a church- 
yard's dismal view. 

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from 
love's delicious hue. 

What more he dreamt, he told to none ; but shud- 
dering, pale, and dumb, 

Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew 
his hour was come. 

*Twas now the dead watch of the night — the helm 

was lashed a-lee, 
And the ship rode where Mount JEtna lights tho 

deep Levantine sea ; 



THE SPECTRE BOAT. 207 

Wlien beneath its glare a boat came, row'd bj a 

woman in her shroud, 
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, 

stood up and spoke aloud : — 

•' Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still 

wanders unfor5:iven ! 
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke 

my peace with heaven !" — 
It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to 

meet her call. 
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing 

serpent's thrall. 

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk 

daunted from the sight. 
For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue 

with hideous light ; 
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving 

of her hand. 
And round they went, and down they went, as the 

cock crew from the land. 

1809. 



208 



THE LOVER TO fflS MISTRESS. 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

If any white-wing'd Power above 

My joys and griefs survey, 
The day when thou wert born, my love — 

He surely bless'd that day. 

I laugh 'd (till taught by thee) when told 

Of Beauty's magic powers, 
That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold, 

And changed its weeds to flowers. 

My mind had lovely shapes portray'd ; 

But thought I earth had one 
Could make even Fancy's visions fade 

Like stars before the sun ? 

I gazed, and felt upon my lips 

The unfinish'd accents hang: 
One moment's bliss, one burning kiss, 

To rapture changed each pang. 



SONG. 209 



And though as swift as lightning's flash 
Those tranced moments flew, 

Not all the waves of time shall wash 
Their memory from my view. 

But duly shall my raptured song, 

And gladly shall my eyes, 
Still bless this day's return, as long 

As thou shalt see it rise. 



SONG. 

Oh, how hard it is to find 

The one just suited to our mind ; 

And if that one should be 
False, unkind, or found too late. 
What can we do but sigh at fate. 

And sing, Woe 's me — Woe 's me ? 

Love 's a boundless burning waste, 
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste, 

And still more seldom flee 
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings ; 
Yet somehow Love a somethinoj brings 

That's sweet— ev'n when we sigh * Woe 

14 



210 



ADELGITHA- 

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, 
And sad pale Adelgitiia came, 

"When forth a valiant champion bounded, 
And slew the slanderer of her fame. 

She wept, deliver'd from her danger ; 

But -when he knelt to claim her glove — 
" Seek not," she cried, " oh ! gallant stranger. 

For hapless Adelgitha's love. 

For he is in a foreign far land 
Whose arms should now have set me free ; 
And I must wear the willow garland 
For him that 's dead, or false to me." 

** Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted ! " — 
He raised his vizor — At the sight 

She fell into his arms and fainted ; 
It was indeed her own true knight ! 



4 



211 



LINES 

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL 

CREST, FROM K. M — , BEFORE HER 

MARRIAGE. 

This wax returns not back more fair 
Th' impression of the gift you send, 

Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear 
The image of your worth, my friend ! — 

We are not friends of yesterday ; — 

But poets' fancies are a little 
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,) — 

By turns impressible and brittle. 

Well ! should its frailty e'er condemn 
My heart to prize or please you less, 

Your type is still the sealing gem, 
And im7ie the waxen brittleness. 

What transcripts of my weal and woe 
This little signet yet may lock, — 

What utterances to friend or foe, 
In reason's calm or passion's shock ! 



212 LINES. 

"What scenes of life's yet curtain'd stage 

May own its confidential die, 
"Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page, 

And feelings of futurity ! — 

Yet wheresoever my pen I lift 

To date the epistolary sheet, 
The blest occasion of the gift 

Shall make its recollection sweet ; 

Sent when the star that rules your fates 
Hath reach'd its influence most benign — 

When every heart congratulates, 
And none more cordially than mine. 

So speed my song — mark'd with the crest 
That erst the advent'rous Norman wore, 

Who won the Lady of the West 
The daughter of Macaillan Mor. 

Crest of my sires ! whose blood it seal'd 
With glory in the strife of swords. 

Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield 
Dejrenerate thoughts or faithless words ! 



'O" 



Yet little might I prize the stone, 
If it but typed the feudal tree 

From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown 
In Fortune's mutability. 



GILDEROT. 213 

No ! — but it tells me of a heart 

Allied by friendship's living tie ; 
A prize bej'ond the herald's art — 

Our soul-sprung consanguinity ! 

Kath'rine ! to many an hour of mine 
Light wings and sunshine you have lent ; 

And so adieu, and still be thine 
The all-in-all of life — Content ! 

1817. 



GILDEROY. 

The last, the fatal hour is come, 
That bears my love from me : 

I hear the dead note of the drum, 
I mark the gallows' tree ! 

The bell has toll'd ; it shakes my heart ; 

The trumpet speaks thy name ; 
And must my Gilderoy depart 

To bear a death of shame ? 

No bosom trembles for thy doom ; 

No mourner wipes a tear ; 
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb, 

The sledge is all thy bier. 



214 GILDEROr. 

Oh, Gilderoy ! bethought we then 

So soon, so sad to part. 
When first in Roslin's lovely glen 

You triumph'd o'er my heart ? 

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen, 
Your hunter garb was trim ; 

And graceful was the ribbon green 
That bound your manly limb ! 

Ah ! little thought I to deplore 
Those limbs in fetters bound ; 

Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, 
The midnight hammer sound. 

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined 

The guiltless to pursue ; 
My Gilderoy was ever kind. 

He could not injure you ! 

A long adieu ! but where shall fly 

Thy widow all forlorn. 
When every mean, and cruel eye 

Regards my woe with scorn ? 

Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears. 
And hate thine orphan boy ; 

Alas ! his infant beauty wears 
The form of Gilderoy. 



STANZAS. 215 



Then will I seek the dreary mound 
That wraps thy mouldering clay, 

And weep and linger on the ground, 
And sigh my heart away. 



STANZAS 

ON THE THREATENED INVASION. 
1803. 

Om bosoms we '11 bare for the glorious strife, 

And our oath is recorded on high, 
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, 

Or crush'd in its ruins to die ! 
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right 

hand, 
And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust — 
God bless the green Isle of the brave ! 

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust. 
It would rouse the old dead from their grave ! 

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right 
hand. 

And swear to prevail in your dear native land I 



216 STANZAS. 

In a Briton's sweet jome shall a spoiler abide, 

Profaning its loves and its charms ? 
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our 
side? 
To arras ! oh, my Country, to arras ! 
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right 

hand, 
And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ! — No ! 

His head to the sword shall be given — 
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, 

And his blood be an offering to Heaven ! 
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right 

hand. 
And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 



k 



217 



THE RITTER BANN. 

The Ritter Bann from Hungary 
Came back, renown'd in arms, 

But scorning jousts of chivalry, 
And love and ladies' chai*ras. 

While other knights held revels, he 
"Was rapt in thoughts of gloom. 

And in Vienna's hostelrie 
Slow paced his lonely room. 

There enter'd one whose face he knew,- 
Whose voice, he was aware, 

He oft at mass had listen'd to 
In the holy house of prayer. 

'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks, 

A fresh and fair old man : 
His reverend air arrested even 

The gloomy Ritter Bann. 

But seeing with him an ancient dame 

Come clad in Scotch attire, 
The Ritter's colour went and came. 

And loud he spoke in ire : 



218 THE RITTER BANN. 

*' Ha ! nurse of her that was my bane, 

Name not her name to me ; 
I wish it blotted from my brain : 

Art poor ? — take alms, and flee." 

** Sir Knight," the abbot interposed, 
" This case your ear demands ; " 

And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed 
In both her trembling hands, 

" Remember, each his sentence waits ; 

And he that shall rebut 
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates 

Of Mercy shall be shut. 

You wedded, undispensed by Church, 
Your cousin Jane in Spring ; — 

In Autumn, when you went to search 
For churchman's pardoning, 

Her house denounced your marriage-band, 

Betroth'd her to De Grey, 
And the ring you put upon her hand 

Was wrench'd by force away. 

Then wept your Jane upon my neck, 
Crying, ' Help me, nurse, to flee 

To my Ilowel Bann's Glamorgan hills;* 
But word arrived — ah me ! — 



THE RITTER BANN. 219 

You were not there ; and 'twas theii threat, 

By foul means or by fair, 
To-morrow morning was to set 

The seal on her despair. 

I had a son, a sea-boy, in 

A ship at Hartland Bay, 
By his aid from her cruel kin 

I bore my bird away. 

To Scotland from the Devon's 

Green myrtle shores we fled ; 
And the Hand that sent the ravens 

To Elijah, gave us bread. 

She wrote you by my son, but he 

From England sent us word 
You had gone into some far countrie, 

In grief and gloom he heard. 

For they that wrong*d you, to elude 

Your wrath, defamed my child ; 
And you — ay, blush. Sir, as you should — 

Believed, and were beguiled. 

To die but at your feet, she vow'd 

To roam the world ; and we 
Would both have sped and begg'd our bread. 

But so it might not be. 



220 THE RITTER BANN. 

For when the snow-storm beat our roof, 

She bore a boy, Sir Bann, 
Who grew as fair your likeness* proof 

As child e'er grew like man. 

*Twas smiling on that babe one morn 
While heath bloom'd on the moor, 

Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghora 
As he hunted past our door. 

She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane, 
And roused his mother's pride : 

Who came to us in high disdain, — 
*And where 's the face,' she cried. 

Has witch'd my boy to wish for one 

So wretched for his wife ? — 
Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son 
Has sworn to seek his life.' 

Her anger sore dismayed us, 

For our mite was wearing scant. 

And, unless that dame would aid us, 
There was none to aid our want. 

So I told her, weeping bitterly. 
What all our woes had been ; 

And, though she was a stern ladie, 
The tears stood in her een. 



THE RITTER BANN. 221 

And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, 

My child to her had sworn, 
That even if made a widow, she 

"Would never wed Kinghorn." 

Here paused the nurse, and then began 

The abbot, standing by : — 
" Three months ago a wounded man 

To our abbey came to die. 

He heard me long, with ghastly eyes 

And hand obdurate clench'd. 
Spoke of the worm that never dies, 

And the fire that is not quench'd. 

At last by what this scroll attests 

He left atonement brief. 
For years of anguish to the breasts 

His guilt had wrung with grief. 

* There lived,' he said, ' a fair young dame 

Beneath my mother's roof; 
I loved her, but against my flame 

Her purity was proof. 

I feign'd repentance, friendship pure ; 

That mood she did not check. 
But let her husband's miniature 

Be copied from her neck, 



222 THE HITTER BANN. 

As means to search him ; my deceit 

Took care to him was borne 
Nought but his picture's counterfeit, 

And Jane's reported scorn. 

The treachery took : she waited wild ; 

My slave came back and lied 
Whate'er I wish'd ; she clasp'd her child, 

And swoon'd, and all but died. 

I felt, her tears for years and years 

Quench not my flame, but stir ; 
The very hate I borje her mate 

Increased my love for her. 

Fame told us of his glory, while 

Joy flush'd the face of Jane ; 
And while she bless'd his name, her smile 

Struck lire into my brain. 

No fears could damp ; I reach'd the camp, 

Sought out its champion ; 
And if my broad-sword fail'd at last, 

'Twas long and well laid on. 

This wound 's my meed, my name 's Kinghom, 

My foe 's the Ritter Bann.' 

The wafer to his lips was borne, 

And we shrived the dying man. 



THE KITTER BANN. 223 

He died not till you went to fight 

The Turks at Warradein ; 
But I see my tale has changed you pale." — 

The abbot went for wine ; 

And brought a little page who pour'd 

It out, and knelt and smiled ; — 
The stunned knight saw himself restored 

To childhood in his child ; 

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, 

Laugh'd loud and wept anon, 
And with a shower of kisses press'd 

The darling little one. 

"And where went Jane ? "— « To a nunnery, Sir- 
Look not again so pale — 

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.*' — 
"And has she ta'en the veil?" — 

" Sit down, Sir," said the priest, " I bar 

Rash words."— They sat all three, 
And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, 

As he kept him on his knee. 

" Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," 

The abbot further said ; 
^* Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face 

More deep than cloister's shade. 



224 THE RITTER BANN. 

Grief may have made her what you can 
Scarce love perhaps for life." 

" Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, 
" Or tell me where 's my wife." 

The priest undid two doors that hid 

The inn's adjacent room, 
And there a lovely woman stood. 

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. 

One moment may with bliss repay 

Unnumber'd hours of pain ; 
Such was the throb and mutual sob 

Of thj knight embracing Jane. 



18U. 



225 



SONG. 

"men of ENGLAND.* 

Men of England ! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their blood 1 
Men whose undegenerate spirit 

Has been proved on field and flood : — 

By the foes you 've fought uncounted, 
By the glorious deeds ye 've done, 

Trophies captured — breaches mounted, 
Navies conquer'd — kingdoms won. 

Yet, remember, England gathers 
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 

If the freedom of your fathers 

Glow not in your hearts the same. 

What are monuments of bravery. 
Where no public virtues bloom ? 

What avail in lands of slavery, 

Trophied temples, arch, and tomb ? 

Pageants !— Let the world revere us 
For our people's rights and laws, 

And the breasts of civic heroes 
Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 
15 



226 SONG. 

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — 

Martyrs in heroic story. 

Worth a hundred Agincourts ! 

We 're the sons of sires that baffled 
Crown'd and mitred tyranny ; — 

They defied the field and scafibld 
For their birthrights — so will we ! 



SONG. 

Drink ye to her that each loves best, 

And if you nurse a flame 
That 's told but to her mutual breast. 

We will not ask her name. 

Enough, while memory tranced and glad 

Paints silently the fair. 
That each should dream of joys he's had, 

Or yet may hope to share. 

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast 
From hallow'd thoughts so dear ; 

But drink to her that each loves most, 
As she would love to hear. 



227 



THE HARPER. 

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah 

was nigh, 
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; 
No harp Hke my own could so cheerily play, 
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. 

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to 

part, 

She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) 

Oh ! remember your Sheelah when far, far away : 

And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. 

Poor dog ! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, 
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor ; 
When the sour-looking iolks sent me heartless 

away, 
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. 

When the road was so dark, and the night was 
so cold, 
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, 
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, 
And he lick'd me for kindness — my poor dog Tray. 



228 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his 
case, 
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; 
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day. 
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. 

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ? 
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind ? 
To my sweet native village, so far, far away, 
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. 



THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube 
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : — 

" Oh whither," she cried, " hast thou wander'd, 
my lover, 
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ? 

^Vllat voice did I hear ? 'twas my Henry that 

sigh'd!" 

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, 

When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, 

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded 

Hussar ! 



THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 229 

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was 
streaming, 
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a 
scar ! 
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, 
That melted in love, and that kindled in war ! 

How srait was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight t 

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war ! 
" Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrow- 
ful night, 
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hus- 
sar!" 

" Thou shalt live," she replied, " Heaven's mercy 
relieving 
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to 
mourn ! " — 
"Ah no ! the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! 
No light of the morn shall to Henry return ! 

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! 

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar ! " — 
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, 

When he sunk in her arms — the poor wounded 
Hussar ! 



230 



LOVE AND MADNESS. 

AN ELEGY. WRITTEN IN 1795. 

Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower ^ 
The solemn bell has toll'd the midnight hour ! 
Roused from drear visions of distemper'd sleep, 
Poor B k wakes — in solitude to weep ! 

" Cease, Memory, cease (the fr'e ndless mourner 
cried) 
To probe the bosom too severely tried ! 
Oh ! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray 
Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day, 
When youthful Hope, the music of the mind. 
Tuned all its charms, and E n was kind ! 

Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling 
frame, 
In sighs to speak thy melancholy name ! 
I hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! 
In midnight shades I view thy passing form ! 
Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel, 
Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel ! 

1 Warwick Castle. 



LOVE AND MADNESS. 231 

Demons of Vengeance ! ye at whose command 
I grasp'd the sword with more than woman's hand. 
Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice controul, 
Or horror damp the purpose of my soul ? 
No ! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, 
TiU Hate fulfill'd what baffled love began ! 

Yes ; let the clay-cold breast that never knew 
One tender pang to generous nature true, 
Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn. 
Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! 

And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness 
warms. 
Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms I 
Delighted idols of a gaudy train, 
111 can your blunter feelings guess the pain, 
When the fond, faithful heart, inspired to prove 
Friendship refined, the calm delight of Love, 
Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn. 
And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn. 

Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the 

deed, 
When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! 

bleed? 
Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow, 
What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow ! 
Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed. 
Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged. 



232 LOVE AND MADNESS. 

Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, 
I wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone ! 

Oh ! righteous Heaven ! 'twas then my tortured 

soul 
First gave to wrath unlimited controul ! 
Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! 
The murmur'd plaint ! the deep heart-heaving 

sigh ! [deeds ; 

Long-slumberinoj Venoreance wakes to better 
He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! 
Now the last laugh of agony is o'er, 
And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more ! 

'Tis done ! the flame of hate no longer bums : 
Nature relents, but, ah ! too late returns ! 
Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel ? 
Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel ! 
Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, 
And shades of horror close my languid eyes ! 

Oh ! 'twas a deed of Murder's deepest grain ! 

Could B k's soul so true to wrath remain? 

A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ? — 
Where Love was foster'd could not Pity dwell ? 

Unhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glowa 
To watch on silent Nature's deep repose. 
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, 
Foretells my fate, and summons me to come I 



LOVE AND MADNESS. 233 

Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, 
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand ! 

Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame 
Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! 
Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, 
Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! 
Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne 
Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn !'* 



Properly a monody on IMiss Broderick. Written at thQ 
age of nineteen, at Downie, Argyllshire, dxiring the poet's 
residence as tutor to the son of Colonel Napier, now Sir 
William Napier, of Milliken, who resided at that time with 
his mother on his grandfather's estate at Downie. The 
monody was transmitted to London to James Thompson, 
Esq., of Clitheroe, Lancashire, in a letter dated September 16, 
1796, of which the following is an extract: — "I believe I 
hinted in my last that I proposed submitting a monody, lately 
finished, to your inspection. The subject is the unhappy fair 
one, who, you may remember, was tried about twelve months 
ago for the murder of Errington. Some of my critical friends 
have blamed me for endeavouring to recommend such a 
woman to sympathy; but from the moment I heard Brode- 
rick's story I could not refrain from admiring her, even amid 
the horror of the rash deed she committed. Errington was 
an inhuman villain to forsake her, and he deserved his fate; 
not by the laws of his country, but of friendship, which he 
had so heinously broken tlirough." 



234 



HALLOWED GROUNU. 

What's hallow'd ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallow'd ground — where, mourn'd and 

miss'd. 
The lips repose our love has kiss'd : — 
But Where's their memory's mansion? Is*t 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven. 
Is hallow'd down to earth's profound, 

And up to Heaven ! 



HALLOWED GROUND. 235 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould ; 

And will not cool, 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
*Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb : 



But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind—* 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die. 



Is 't death to fall for Freedom's ri^jht ? 
He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws: — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 



236 HALLOWED GROUND. 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space . 

Tlie colours planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 



And place Our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not — 
I'he heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chaunt. 



HALLOAVED GROUND. ^7 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 

Thy temples — creeds themselves grow w^ ! 

But there 's a dome of nobler span, 
A temple given 

Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban- 
Its space is Heaven,! 



Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing. 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 



Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time : 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn. 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 



238 SONG. 

What 's hallo w'd ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 



SONG. 

WiTHDRATV not yet those lips and fingers, 
Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell ; 

Life's joy for us a moment lingers, 

And death seems in the word — Farewell. 

The hour that bids us part and go. 

It sounds not yet, — oh ! no, no, no ! 

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, 
Flies like a courser nigh the goal ; 
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness, 
When thou art parted from my soul ? 
Our hearts shalt beat, our tears shall flow, 
But not together — no, no, no ! 



239 



CAROLINE. 
PART I. 

I *LL bid the hyacinth to blow, 
1 11 teach my grotto green to be ; 

And sing my true love, all below 
The holly bower and myrtle tree. 

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, 
The sweet South wind shall wander by> 

And with the music of his wing 
Delight my rustling canopy. 

Come to my close and clustering bower. 
Thou spirit of a milder clime. 

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, 
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme. 

With all thy rural echoes come. 
Sweet comrade of the rosy day, 

"Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, 
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. 



240 CAROLINE. 

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, 

Whatever isles of ocean fann'd, 
Come to my blossom-woven shade, 

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. 

For sure from some enchanted isle, 

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, 

Where pure and happy spirits smile, 
Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould : 

From some green Eden of the deep, 
Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, 

Where tears of rapture lovers weep, 
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived : 

From some sweet paradise afar. 
Thy music wanders, distant, lost — 

Where Nature lights her leading star, 
And love is never, never cross'd. 

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers, 
If back thy rosy feet should roam, 

To revel with the cloudless Hours 
In Nature's more propitious home, 

Name to thy loved Elysian groves. 
That o'er enchanted spirits twine, 

A fairer form than Cherub loves. 
And let the name be Caroline. 

1795. 



1 



241 



CAROLINE. 



PAKT IL 



TO THE EVENING STAB. 



Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, 

Companion of retiring day, 
"Why at the closing gates of Heaven, 

Beloved star, dost thou delay ? 

So fair thy pensile beauty burns, 

When soft the tear of twilight flows; 

So due thy plighted love returns, 
To chambers brighter than the rose : 

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, 
So kind a star thou seem'st to be, 

Sure some enamour'd orb above 

Descends and burns to meet with thee. 

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, 
When all unheavenly passions fly, 

Chased by the soul-subduing power 
Of Love's delicious witchery. 
16 



242 CAEOLINE. 

O ! sacred to the fall of day, 

Queen of propitious stars, appear, 

And early rise, and long delay, 
When Caroline herself is here ! 

Shine on her chosen green resort, 

"Whose trees the sunward summit crown, 

And wanton flowers, that well may court 
An angel's feet to tread them down. 

Shine on her sweetly-scented road. 
Thou star of evening's purple dome, 

That lead'st the nightingale abroad, 
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath 
Embalms the soft exhaling dew. 

Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. 

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, 
Her silken tresses darkly flow. 

And fall upon her brow so fair. 

Like shadows on the mountain snow. 

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline. 
In converse sweet, to wander far, 

O bring with thee my Caroline, 

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! 

1796 



k 



243 



THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION 

O LEAVE this barren spot to me ! 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 
Though bush or floweret never grow 
My dark unwarming shade below ; 
Nor summer bud perfume the dew 
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ! 
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, 
My green and glossy leaves adorn ; 
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive ; 
Yet leave this barren spot to me : 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree I 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
The sky grow bright, the forest green; 
And many a wintry wind have &tiOO(\ 
In bloomless, fruitless solitude, 
Since ehildhoo,d in my pleasant bower 
First spent its sweet and sportive hour ; 
Since youthful lovers in my shade 
Their vows of truth and rai)ture made ; 
And on my trunk's surviving frame 
Carv'd many a long-forgotten name. 



244 FIELD FtOWKRS. 

Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, 
First breathed upon this sacred ground ; 
Bj all that Love has whisper'd here, 
Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear ; 
As Love's own altar honour me : 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 



FIELD FLOWERS. 

Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, 
Yet wildings of Nature, I dote upon you. 

For ye waft me to summers of old, 
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy 

delight, 
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my 
sight. 
Like treasures of silver and gold. 

I love you for lulling me back into dreams 

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing 

streams, 
And of birchen glades breathing their balm. 
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine 

remote. 



FIELD FLOWERS. 245 

And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pig(»on*s 
note 
Made music that sweeten'd the calm. 

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : 

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
When the magic of nature first breathed on my 
mind, 

And your blossoms were part of her spell. 

Even now what affections the violet awakes; 
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, 

Can the wild water-lily restore ; 
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, 
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks, 

In the vetches that tangled their shore. 

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, 

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless 

stage. 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 

And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 



216 



SONG. 



TO THE EVENING STAB. 



Star that bringest home the bee, 
And sett'st the wearj labourer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, 

That send'st it from above, 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love- 
Come to the luxuriant skies. 
Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, 

And songs when toil is done. 
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 

Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews. 
Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art, 
T'iO delicious to be riven 

Bj absence from the heart. 



i 



247 



STANZAS TO PAINTING. 

THOU by whose expressive art 
Her perfect image Nature sees 

In union with the Graces start, 
And sweeter by reflection please ! 

In whose creative hand the hues 

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; 

1 bless thee, Promethean muse ! 

And call thee brightest of the Nine ! 

Possessing more than vocal power, 
Persuasive more than poet's tongue ; 

Whose lineage, in a raptured hour. 

From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung ; 

Does Hope her high possession meet? 

Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? 
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet 

When all we love is all our own. 

But oh ! thou pulse of pleasure dear. 
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; 

Lone absence plants a pang severe. 
Or death inflicts a keener dart. 



248 STANZAS TO PAINTING. 

Then for a beam of joj to light 
In memory's sad and wakeful eye ! 

Or banish from the noon of night 
Her dreams of deeper agony. 

Shall Song its witching cadence roll ? 

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, 
That breathed when soul was knit to soul, 

And heart to heart responsive beat ? 

What visions rise ! to charm, to melt ! 

The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! 
Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt ! 

And cease that solace too severe ! 

But thou, serenely silent art ! 

By heaven and love wast taught to lend 
A milder solace to the heart, 

The sacred image of a friend. 

All is not lost ! if, yet possest. 

To me that sweet memorial shine : — 

If close and closer to my breast 
I hold that idol all divine. 

Or, gazing through luxurious tears, 
Melt o'er the loved departed form. 

Till death's cold bosom half appears 
With life, and speech, and spirit warm. 



STANZAS TO PAINTING. 249 

She looks ! she lives ! this tranced hour, 
Her bright eye seems a purer gem 

Than sparkles on the throne of power, 
Or glory's wealthy diadem. 

Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid 

A treasure to my soul has given, 
Where beauty's canonized shade 

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. 

No spectre forms of pleasure fled. 

Thy softening, sweetening, tints restore ; 

For thou canst give us back the dead, 
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. 

Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, 
Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems ! 

Whose tablet of a thousand hues 
The mirror of creation seems. 

From Love began thy high descent ; 

And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine, 
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ; 

And call thee brightest of the Nine ! 



250 



THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 

Never wedding, ever wooing, 
Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, 
Read you not the wrong you 're doing 

In my cheek's pale hue ? 
All my life with sorrow strewing, 

Wed, or cease to woo. 

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, 
Still our days are disunited ; 
Now the lamp of hope is lighted, 

Now half-quench'd appears, 
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted, 

'Midst my sighs and tears. 

Charms you call your dearest blessing, 
Lips that thrill at your caressing. 
Eyes a mutual soul confessing, 

Soon you '11 make them grow 
Dim, and worthless your possessing. 

Not with age, but woe ! 



251 



ABSENCE. 

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, 

It is not doubting what thou art, 
But 'tis the too, too long endurance 

Of absence, that afflicts my heart. 

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, 
When each is lonely doora'd to weep, 

Are fruits on desert isles that perish, 
Or riches buried in the deep. 

"What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, 
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ; 

Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, 
Is but more slowly doom'd to break. 

Absence ! is not the soul torn by it 

From more than light, or life, or breath ? 

Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, 
The pain without the peace of death ! 



252 



LINES 

INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED 
BY MR. CHANTREY, 

Which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir 
G. Campbell, K. C. B. to the memory of her Husband. 

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, 
FulfiU'd the hero's and the patriot's part, — 
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd. 
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, — 
This stone is rear'd: to public duty true. 
The seaman's friend, the father of his crew — 
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command. 
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band. 
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, 
What British valour owes to Britain's weal. 
These were his public virtues : — but to trace 
His private life's fair purity and grace, 
To paint the traits that drew affection strong 
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng, 
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim, 
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name — 
O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief, 
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief, 
Save in religion's high and holy trust, 
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust. 



253 



STANZAS 

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. 

Hearts of oak that have bravely deliver*d the 
brave, [grave, 

And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the 
'Tvvas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to 
save, 
That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine : 
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the 
wave, 
The light of your glory shall shine. 

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed 

and toil, 
"Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil? 
No ! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil 

The uprooter of Greece's domain ! 
"When he tore the last remnant of food from her 
soil. 
Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain ! 

Yet, Navarin's heroes ! does Christendom breed 
The base hearts that will question the fame of 
your deed ? 



254 STANZAS. 

Are they men ? — ^let ineffable sTJorn be their meed, 
And oblivion shadow their graves ! — 

Are they women ? — to Turkish serails let them 
speed ; 
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. 

Abettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore 

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore? 

That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more 

By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd ! 
And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by 
their gore 

Missolonghi*s assassins have gasp'd ? 

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the 

mind, 
Than when Christendom's pennons wooed social 
the wind, [bined, 

And the flower of her brave for the combat com- 
Their watch-word, humanity's vow : [kind 

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but man- 
Owes a ffarland to honour his brow ! 



fa' 



Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall 
Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled 

Gaul: 
For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call, 

"Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ? 
All were brave ! but the star of success over all 

Was the lisht of our Codrinirton's soul. 



I 



LINES. 255 

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek ! 
Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his 

cheek : 
In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak 

When their lore and their lutes they reclaim : 
And the first of their songs from Parnassus*a 
peak 
Shall be " Glory to CodringtorCs name ! " 

1828. 



LINES 

ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER. 

And call they this Improvement! — to have 

changed, 
My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, 
Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged, 
And heaven reflected in thy wave no more ; 
Whose banks, that sweeten'd May-day's breath 

before, 
Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam, 
With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er ; 
And for the daisied green-sward, down thy stream 
Unsightly brick lanes smoke, and clanking engines 

gleam. 



25G LINES. 

Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains , 
One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom 
Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains. 
But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening 

whom ? 
See, left but life enough and breathing-room 
The hunger and the hope of life to feel, 
Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom, 
And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel, 
From morn till midnight task'd to earn its little 

meal. 

Is this Improvement ? — where the human breed 
Degenerate as they swarm and overflow, 
Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, 
And man competes with man, like foe with foe, 
Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public 

woe ? 
Improvement ! — smiles it in the poor man's eyes. 
Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour ? — No — 
To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize, 
We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome 

skies. 

Nor call that evil slight ; God has not given 

This passion to the heart of man in vain. 

For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven, 

And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign. 

For not alone our frame imbibes a stain 

From foetid skies ; the spirit's healthy pride 



THE "NAIIE UNKNOWN." 257 

fades in their gloom — And therefore I complain, 
That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst 

glide, 
My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic 

Clyde ! 

1827. 



THE "NAME UNKNOWN." i 

IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK. 

Prophetic pencil ! wilt thou trace 
A faithful image of the face. 

Or wilt thou write the " Name Unknown/' 
Ordain'd to bless my charmed soul, 
And all my future fate control, 

Unrivall'd and alone ? 

Delicious Idol of my thought ! 
Though sylph or spirit hath not taught 

My boding heart thy precious name ; 
Yet musing on my distant fate. 
To charms unseen I consecrate 

A visionary flame. 

[1 These lines were written in Geru'.ciny.] 
17 



258 THE "name unknown." 

Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, 
Thy virgin voice of melody, 

Are ever present to my heart ; 
Thy murmur'd vows shall yet be mine, 
My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, 

And never, never part. 

Then fly, my days, on rapid wing 
Till Love the viewless treasure bring 

While I, like conscious Athens, own 
A power in mystic silence seal'd, 
A guardian angel imreveal'd, 

And bless the " Name Unknown ! '* 



259 



FAREWELL TO LOVE. 

I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's bound- 
less pain, 

And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not 
break his chain ; 

But now that Fancy's fire is quench'd, and ne*er 
can burn anew, 

I Ve bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! 
adieu! 

I 've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of 

Beauty's thrall, 
And if my song hiis told them not, my soul has 

felt them all ; 
But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's 

witching sway 
Is now to me a star that 's fall'n — a dream that 's 

pass'd away. 

Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous 

billows roll, 
How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon 

calm of soul 1 



560 LINES. 

The wearied bird blown o*er the deep would 

sooner quit its shore, 
Than I would cross the gulf again that time has 

brought me o*er. 

"Why say they Angels feel the flame ? — Oh, spirits 

of the skies ! 
Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly 

bosoms rise ? — 
Ah no ! the hearts that best have felt its power, 

the best can tell, 
That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has 

bid farewelL 

1830. 



LINES 

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. 

In the deep blue of eve. 
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, 

Or the lark took his leave 
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, 

I climb'd to yon heights. 
Where the Norman encamp'd him of old. 

With his bowmen and knights, 
And his banner all burnish'd with gold. 



LINES. 261 

At the Conqueror's side 
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, 

In pavilion wide ; 
And they chaunte^ the deeds of Roland. 

Still the ramparted ground 
With a vision my fancy inspires, 

And I hear the trump sound, 
As it marshal'd our Chivalry's sires. 

On each turf of that mead 
Stood the captors of England's domains. 

That ennobled her breed 
And high-mettled the blood of her veins. 

Over hauberk and helm 
As the sun's setting splendour was thrown, 

Thence they look'd o'er a realm — 
And to-morrow beheld it their own. 



I The preceding "Lines" were composed in the year 1831, 
and their subject (to use the poet's own words) "is a spot of 
ground, not far from the Castle of Hastings, on which I have 
ascertained, by a comparison of histories, the camp of Wil- 
liam the Confiueror must have been placed the evening before 
he defeated Harold. "J 



262 



LIXES ON POLAND. 

And have I lived to see thee sword in hand 
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land ! — 
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, 
And leaves the tri-color in shade behind ; 
A theme for uninspired lips too strong ; 
That swells my heart beyond the power of song : — 
Majestic men, whose deeds have ;!uzzled faith. 
Ah ! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath : 
Whilst envying bosoms, bared to shot and steel, 
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. 

Poles ! with what indignation I endure 
Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor ; 
Poor ! is it England mocks you with her grief, 
Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial 

Thiep 
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall, 
And Germany that has no soul at all, — 
States, quailing at the giant overgrown. 
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone ! 
No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed ; 
We cannot aid you — we are poor indeed ! 



LINES ON POLAND. 263 

In Fate's defiance — in the world's great eye, 
Poland has won her immortality ; 
The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, 
Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow ; 
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renown'd. 
And all her ashes will be holy ground ! 

But turn, my soul, from presages so dark: 

Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark 

That 's fann'd by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's 

rage: 
She, like the eagle, will renew her age, 
And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, — 
Another Athens after Marathon, — 
Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, 
Briofht as her arms that now in battle shine. 
Come — should the heavenly shock my life destroy, 
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy ; 
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won — 
And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's 

sun — 
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow 
With endless ensigns ravish'd from the foe, — 
Her woman lifting their fair hands with thanks, 
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, 
The 'scutcheon'd walls of high heraldic boast, 
The odorous altars' elevated host. 
The organ soundino; throu":h the aisles' lonoj 

glooms. 
The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs ; 



264 LINES ON POLAND. 

(John, Europe's saviour — Poniatowski's fair 
llesemblance — Kosciusko's shall be there ;) 
The taper'd pomp — the hallelujah's swell, 
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell, 
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance, 
And all the scene becomes a waking trance. 
Should Fate put far — far off that glorious scene, 
And gulfs of havoc interpose between, 
Imagine not, ye men of every clime. 
Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime— 
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead 
Against the " deep damnation " of the deed. 
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace 
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. 
Is AUemagne profound in science, lore, 
And minstrel art ? — her shame is but the more 
To doze and dream by governments oppress'd, 
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. 
Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line, 
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine : 
But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke 
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke : 
Heavens ! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads 
And mystic metaphysics of your heads. 
To show the self-same grave Oppression delves 
For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves ? 
See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, 
Has vaulted on his barb, and couch'd the lance, 
France turns from her abandon'd friends afresh. 
And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh ; 



LINES ON POLAND. 265 

Bu} s, ignominious purchase ! short repose, 
With dying curses, and the groans of those 
That served, and loved, and put in her their 

trust. 
Frenchmen ! the dead accuse you from the dust- 
Brows laurell'd — bosoms mark'd with many a scar 
For France — that wore her Legion's noblest 

star, 
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death 
On Gallic honour : and this broken faith 
Has robb'd you more of Fame — the life of life — 
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! 
And what of England — is she steep'd so low 
In poverty, crest-fall'n, and palsied so, 
That we must sit much wroth, but timorous mor«, 
With murder knocking at our neighbour's 

door ! — 
Not murder raask'd and cloak'd, with hidden knife, 
Whose owner owes the gallows life for life ; 
But Public Murder ! — that with pomp and gaud, 
And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad 
To wring more tears and blood than e'er were 

wrung 
By all the culprits Justice ever hung ! 
We read the diadem'd Assasin's vaunt, 
And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant 
With useless indignation — sigh, and frown. 
But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. 
If but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray, 
Or trivial rapine stopp'd the world's highway : 



266 LINES ON POLAND. 

Were this some common strife of States em- 

broil'd ;— 
Britannia on the spoiler and the sijoll'd 
Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, 
Still honourably wear her olive wreath. 
But this is Darkness combatinsc with Lio^ht : 
Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight ; 
Oppression, that has belted half the globe, 
Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe, 
Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain 
That da<]r<2:er — shakes it at us in disdain : 
Talks big to Freedom's states of Poland's thrall. 
And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. 

My country ! colours not thy once proad brow 
At this affront ? — Hast thou not fleets enow 
With Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark, 
Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark, 
To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood, 
And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood ? 
Ev'n now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, 
I see, my Country and my Patriot King ! 
Your ensign glad the deep. Becalm'd and slow 
A war-ship rides ; while Heaven's prismatic bow 
Uprisen behind her on th' horizon's base. 
Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and 

stays. 
And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. 
My soul accepts the omen ; Fancy's eye 
Has sometimes a veracious augury : 



LINES ON POLAND. 267 

The Hainbow types Heaven's promise to ray sight; 
The Ship, Britannia's interposing Might ! 
But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, 
Ye '11 but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, 
Above example, pity, praise, or blame. 
To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. 
Ask aid no more from Nations that forget 
Your championship — old Europe's mighty debt. 
Though Poland, Lazarus-like, has burst the gloom, 
She rises not a beggar from the tomb : 
In Fortune's frown, on Danger's giddiest brink, 
Despair and Poland's name must never link, 
All ills have bounds — plague, whirlwind, fire, and 

flood: 
Ev'n Power can spill but bounded sums of blood. 
States caring not what Freedom's price may be, 
May late or soon, but must at last be free ; 
For body-killing tyrants cannot kill 
The public soul — the hereditary will 
That downward, as from sire to son it goes, 
By shifting bosoms more intensely glows : 
Its heirloom is the heart, and slaughter'd men 
Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again. 
Poland recasts — though rich in heroes old — 
Her men in more and more heroic mould ; 
Her eagle ensign best among mankind 
Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind : 
Her praise upon my faltering lips expires; 
Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres .' 



268 LINES ON POLAND. 



Campbell's hatred of tyranny, and his exertions in the 
cause of the oppressed, and particularly the unfortunate 
Poles, will not lightly pass away from the memory of those 
who so largely benefited by his labours. 

During his lifetime some of the most eminent of the anciei/t 
noblesse of Poland expressed a grateful sense of obligation 
due to him. At his funeral there were not wanting sincere 
mourners for his loss (some of whom scattered "kindred 
dust" upon his coffin). After his decease, Lord Dudley 
Stuart, as Vice-President of the Polish Association, forwarded 
to Campbell's executors a tribute of condolence, from which 
the following passage is extracted: — 

" J^or did Mr. Campbell content himself with a mere abstract 
feeling of sympathy for the friendless and destitute Poles. 
No, his purse was open to them with a liberality far more in 
accordance with his generous nature than with the extent of 
his means: and early in the year 1832, in conjunction with 
the Polish poet Niemciewitz and the celebrated Prince Czar- 
toryski, he founded this Association for the purpose of diffus- 
ing and keeping alive in the public mind a lively interest for 
ill-fated Poland. His pathetic, eloquent, and fervid address 
to our countrjTnen, throughout the empire, as our first presi- 
dent, on behalf of that unfortunate countrj', was eminently 
efi'ective and successful. By imparting a knowledge of the 
objects of the parent society, he conciliated much powerful 
support from men of all parties in the state." 






A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW 
YEAR. 

The more we live, more brief appear 

Our life's succeeding stages ; 
A (lay to childliood seems a year, 

And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, 

Ere passion yet disorders. 
Steals, lingering like a river smooth 

Along its grassy borders. 

But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan, 

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
Ye stars, that measure life to man. 

Why seem your courses quicker? 

When joys have lost their bloom and breath. 

And life itself is vapid. 
Why, as we reach the Falls of death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid ? 

It may be strange — yet who would change 

Time's course to slower speeding ; 
When one by one our friends have gone, 

And left our bosoms bleeding ? 



270 SONG. 

Heaven gives our years of fading strength 

Indemnifying fleetness ; 
And those of Youth, a seeming length, 

Proportion'd to their sweetness. 



SOA^G. 



How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at Love's beginning, 
"When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there 's no untying I 



Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing ; 
Other smiles may make you fickle, 
Tears f<^ other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays, when sorest chidden ; 
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden. 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odour to the lily. 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver. 
Then bind Love to last for ever ! 



I 



MARGARF. r AND DORA. 271 

Love 's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, 

Only free, he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ringdove's neck from changing ? 
No ! nor fetter'd Love from dying 
In the knot there 's no untying. 



MARGARET AND DORA. 

Margaret 's beauteous — Grecian arts 
Ne'er drew form completer, 
Yet why, in my heart of hearts, 
Hold I Dora 's sweeter ? 

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue 
Pass all painting's reach, 
Ringdoves' notes are discord to 
The music of her speech. 

Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, 
And on canvas show it ; 
But for perfect worship leave 
Dora to her poet. 



272 



THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 

So all this gallant blood has gush*d in vain ! 
And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak 
And talons torn, lies prostrated again. 
O British patriots, that were wont to speak 
Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd or 

meek ! 
O heartless men of Europe — Goth and Gaul, 
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ; — 
That saw the world's last land of heroes fall — 
Che brand of burning shame is on you all — all- 
all! 

But this is not the drama's closing act ! 
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. 
Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! 
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew 
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you 
The lengthening shadow of its head elate — 
A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue. 
To all that's hallow'd, righteous, pure and 

great. 
Wo I wo ! when they are reach'd by Hussia's 

withering hate. 



THE POWER 01' RUSSIA. 273 

Russia, that on Lis throne of adamant, 
Consults what nation's breast shall next be 

gored : 
He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant 
His standard fresh ; and horde succeeding horde, 
On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, 
For more stupendous slaughters of the free. 
Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is 

pour'd, 
Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, 
All — all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. 

Why smote ye not the Giant wliilst he reel'd ? 

O fair occasion, gone for ever by ! 

To have lock'd his lances in their northern 

field. 
Innocuous as the phantom chivalry 
That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! 
Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land 
Once Poland ; build thy bristling castles high ; 
Dig dungeons deep ; for Poland's wrested brand 
Is now a weapon new to widen thy command — 

An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build 
His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane • 
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be till'd 
To feed his dazzling, desolating train, 
Camp'd sumless, 'twixt the Black and Baltic 

main : 
Brute hosts, I own ; but Sparta could not write, 
18 



274 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 

And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's 

chain : 
So Russia's spirit, 'midst Sclavonic night, 
Burns with afire more dread than all your polished 

light. 

But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen speak) 
Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 
0, lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak 
The stripling Titan, strengthening year by 

year. 
What implement lacks he for war's career, 
That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, 
(Elighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) 
"Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, 
And India's homage waits, when Adbion's star 

declines ! 

But time will teach the Russ, ev'n conquering 

War 
Has handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo 
All sciences that speed Bellona's car, 
All murder's tactic arts, and win them too ; 
But never holier Muses shall imbue 
His breast, that 's made of nature's basest 

clay: 
The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapour blue 
His laws and ethics : far from him away 
Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Free- 
dom's day. 



THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 275 

Say, ev'n his serfs, half-humanized, should learn 
Their human rights, — will Mars put out his 

flame 
In Russian bosoms ? no, he '11 bid them burn 
A thousand years for nought but martial fame, 
Like Romans : — yet forgive me, Roman name ! 
Ronie could impart what Russia never can ; 
Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame. 
Our strife is coming ; but in freedom's van 
The Pohsh eagle's fall is big with fate to man. 

Proud bird of old ! Mohammed's moon recoil'd 
Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold, 
That swoop, still free, had stunn'd the Russ, 

and foil'd 
Earth's new oppressors, as it foil'd her old. 
Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : 
And colder still Polonia's children find 
The sympathetic hands, that we outhold. 
But, Poles, Avhen we are gone, the world will 
mind. 
Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for human- 
kind. 

So hallowedly have ye fulfill'd your part, 
My pride repudiates ev' n the sigh that blends 
"With Poland's name — name written on my 

heart. 
My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! 
Your sorrow, in nobilitv, transcends 



276 THE POWER OF PRUSSIA. 

Your conqueror's joy: his claeek may blush; 
but shame 

Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear de- 
scends ; 

Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, 
and name, 
For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. 

Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power 
The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ; 
Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banish'd bower, 
The patricide, who in thy palace stands, 
May envy : proudly may Polonia's bands 
Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in 

scorn 
Saying — " Russia from the metal of these 

brands 
Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; 
Our setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn." 

1831. 



277 



LINES 

ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. 

Adieu the woods and waters' side, 
Imperial Danube' s rich domain ! 

Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, 
The rocks abrupt and grassy plain ! 
For pallid Autumn once again 

Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill ; 
Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, 
And watery winds that sweep the vale 

Grow loud and louder still. 

But not the storm, dethroning fast 
Yon monarch oak of massy pile ; 

Nor river roaring to the blast 
Around its dark and desert isle ; 
Nor church-bell tolling to beguile 

The cloud-born thunder passing by. 
Can sound in discord to my soul : 
Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll I 

And rage, thou darken'd sky ! 



278 LINES. 

Thj blossoms now no longer bright ; 

Thy wither'd woods no longer green ; 
Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight 

I visit thy unlovely scene ! 

For many a sunset hour serene 
My steps have trod thy mellow dew ; 

When his green light the glowworm gave, 

"When Cynthia from the distant wave 
Her twilight anchor drew, 

And plough'd, as with a swelling sail, 

The billowy clouds and starry sea; 
Then while thy hermit nightingale 

Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, — 

Romantic, solitary, free. 
The visitant of Eldurn's shore. 

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd, 

As echoed to the music made 
By Druid harps of yore. 

Around thy savage hills of oak, 

Around thy waters bright and blue, 

No hunter's horn the silence broke. 
No dying shriek thine echo knew ; 
But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you 

The wounded wild deer ever ran, 

"Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, 
"Whose very rocks a shelter gave 

From blood-pursuing man. 



t 



LINES. 



279 



Oh heart effusions, that arose 

From nightly wanderings cherish'd here ; 
To him who flies from many woes, 

Even homeless deserts can be deal" ! 

The last and solitary cheer 
Of those that own no earthly home, 

Say — is it not, ye banish'd race. 

In such a loved and lonely place 
Companionless to roam ? 

Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode, 

Unknown, unplough'd, untrodden shore ; 

Where scarce the woodman finds a road, 
And scarce the fisher plies an oar ; 
For man's neglect I love thee more ; 

That art nor avarice intrude 

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, 
Or prune thy vintage of the rock 

Magnificently rude. 

Unheeded spreads thy blossom'd bud 

Its milky bosom to the bee ; 
Unheeded falls along the flood 

Thy desolate and aged tree. 

Forsaken scene, how like to thee 
The fate of unbefriended Worth ! 

Like thine her fruit dishonour'd falls ; 

Like thee in solitude she calls 
A thousand treasures forth. 



280 LINES. 

Oh ! silent spirit of the place, 
If, lingering with the ruin'd year, 

Thy hoary form and awful face 

I yet might watch and worship here ! 
Thy storm were music to mine ear, 

Thy wildest Avalk a shelter given 
Sublimer thoughts on earth to find. 
And share, with no unhallow'd mind, 

The majesty of heaven. 

"What though the bosom friends of Fate,- 

Prosperity's un weaned brood, — 
Thy consolations cannot rate, 

self-dependent solitude ! 
Yet with a spirit unsubdued, 

Though darken'd by the clouds of Care, 
To worship thy congenial gloom, 
A pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb 

The Friendless shall repair. 

On him the world hath never smiled 
Or look'd but with accusing eye ; — 

All-silent goddess of the wild, 

To thee that misanthrope shall fly ! 

1 hear his deep soliloquy, 

I mark his proud but ravaged form. 
As stern he wraps his mantle round. 
And bids, on winter's bleakest ground, 

Defiance to the storm. 



LINES. 281 

Peace to his bani^li'd heart, at last, 

In thy dominions shall descend, 
And, strong as heechwood in the blast. 

His spirit shall refuse to bend ; 

Enduring life without a friend, 
The world and falsehood left behind. 

Thy votary shall bear elate, 

(Triumphant o'er opposing Fate,) 
His dark inspired mind. 

But dost thou, Folly, mock the Muse 

A wanderer's mountain walk to sing, 
Who shuns a warring world, nor woos 

The vulture cover of its wing? 

Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing, 
Back to the fostering world beguiled, 

To waste in self-consuming strife 

The loveless brotherhood of life, 
Reviling and reviled ! 

Away, thou lover of the race 

That hither chased yon weeping deer I 
If Nature's all majestic face 

More pitiless than man's appear; 

Or if the wild winds seem more drear 
Than man's cold charities below, 

Behold around his peopled plains, 

Where'er the social savage reigns. 
Exuberance of woe ! 



282 LINES. 

His art and honours wouldst thou seek 
Emboss'd on grandeur's giant walls ? 

Or hear his moral thunders speak 
Where senates light their airy halls, 
Where man his brother man enthralls ; 

Or sends his whirlwind warrant forth 
To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, 
To dye the blood-warm waves afar, 

And desolate the earth ? 

From clime to clime pursue the scene. 
And mark in all thy spacious way, 

Where'er the tyrant man has been. 
There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay ; 
In wilds and woodlands far away 

She builds her solitary bower. 
Where only anchorites have trod. 
Or friendless men, to worship God, 

Have wander'd for an hour. 

In such a far forsaken vale, — 

And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, — 
Afflicted nature shall inhale 

Heaven-borrow'd thoughts and joys divine; 

No longer wish, no more repine 
For man's neglect or woman's scorn ; — 

Then wed thee to an exile's lot. 

For if the world hath loved thee not, 
Its absence may be borne. 



283 



THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 

Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred 

head ? — 
Ay, the quick have their sleep-waJkers, so have 

the dead. 
There are brains, though they moulder, that dream 

in the tomb, 
And that maddening forebear the last trumpet of 

doom, 
Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth, 
Making horror more deep by the semblance of 

mirth : 
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance, 
Or at mid-sea appall the chill' d mariner s glance. 
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile 
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle. 

The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire, 
Ajid the red moon look'd down with an aspect of 

ire ; 
But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and 

gray. 
And the mews that had slept clang'd and shriek'd 

far away — 



284 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 

And the buojs and the beacons extinguish'd their 

light, 
As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight, 
Hifjh bounding from billow to billow ; each form 
Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the 

storm ; 
"With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, 
Fast they plough'd by the lee-shore of Heligoland, 
Such breakers as boat of the living ne' er cross'd ; 
Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptoss'd ; 
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood 
To the challenging watchman that curdled his 

blood — 
*We are dead — we are bound from our graves 

in the west. 
First to Hecla, and then to * Unmeet was 

the rest 
For man's ear. The old abbey bell thunder'd its 

clang, 
And their eyes gleam'd with phosphorus light as 

it rang : 
Ere they vanish'd, they stopp'd, and gazed silently 

grim, 
Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and 

limb. 

Now who were those roamers? of gallows or 

wheel 
Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's 

steel ? 



THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 285 

No,,by magistrates' cliains 'mid their g^a^nB-clothes 

you saw 
They were felons too proud to have perish'd by 

law: 
But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have 

been, 
*Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not 

green, 
Show'd them men who had trampled and tortured 

and driven 
To rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by 

Heaven, — 
Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous 

task. 
If the Truth and the Time had not dragg'd off 

their mask. 
They parted — but not till the sight might discern 
A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern, 
"Where letters emblazon'd in blood-colour'd flame, 
Named their faction — I blot not my page with its 

name. 

1828. 



286 



SONG. 

When Love came first to earth, the Spring 
Spread rose-beds to receive him, 

And back he vow'd his flight he 'd wing 
To Heaven, if she should leave him. 

But Spring departing, saw his faith 
Pledged to the next new comer — 

He revell'd in the. warmer breath 
And richer bowers of Summer. 

Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights 

An Archer for her lover. 
And even in Winter's dark cold nights 

A charm he could discover. 

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, 
For this time were his reasons — 

In short, Young Love 's a gallant boy, 
That likes all times and seasons. 

1829. 



287 



SONG, 

Ear]. March look'd on his dying child, 
And smit with grief to view her— 

The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, 
Shall be restored to woo her. 

She 's at the Avindow many an hour 

His coming to discover : 
And he look'd up to Ellen's bower, 

And she look'd on her lover — 

But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, 

Though her smile on him was dwelling. 

And am I then forj^ot — for<2;ot ? — 
It broke the heart of Ellen. 

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, 

Her cheek is cold as ashes ; 
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 

To lift their silken lashes. 



288 



SOXG. 

When Napoleon was flying 

From the field of Waterloo, 
A British soldier dying 

To liis brother bade adieu ! 

" And take," he said, " this token 
To the maid that OAvns my faith, 

"With the words that I have spoken 
In affection's latest breath." 

Sore raoum'd the brother's heart, 
"When the youth beside him fell ; 

But the trumpet warn'd to part, 
And they took a sad farewell. 

There was many a friend to lose him. 
For that gallant soldier sigh'd ; 

But the maiden of his bosom 

"Wept when all their tears were dried. 



289 



LINES TO JULIA M- 



8ENT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTH0R*8 POE 

Since there is magic in your look 
And in your voice a witching charm, 
As all our hearts consenting tell, 
Kncliantress, smile upon my book, 
And guard its lays from hate and harm 
By beauty's most resistless spell. 

The sunny dew-drop of thy praise, 
Young day-star of the rising time, 
Shall with its odoriferous morn 
Refresh my sere and wither'd bays. 
Smile, and I will believe my rhyme 
Shall please the beautiful unborn. 

Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise 
In traits and tints of sweeter tone, 
When Julia's glance is o'er ye flung ; 
Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes, 
And catch a magic not your own. 
Read by the music of her tongue. 
19 



200 



DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. 

Sweet Iser ! were thy sunny realm 

And flowery gardens mine, 
Thy waters I would shade with elm 

To prop the tender vine ; 
My golden flagons I would fill 
With rosy draughts from every hill ; 

And under every myrtle bower, 
My gay companions should prolong 
The laugh, the revel, and the song, 

To many an idle hour. 

Like rivers crimson'd with the beam 

Of yonder planet bright, 
Our balmy cups should ever stream 

Profusion of delight ; 
No care should touch the mellow heart. 
And sad or sober none depart ; 

For wine can triumph over woe. 
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, 
Could build in Iser's sunny bowers 

A paradise below. 



291 



LINES 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW 
SOUTH WALES. 

On England's shore I saw a pensive band, 
With sails unfurl'd for earth's remotest strand, 
Like children parting from a mother, shed 
Tears for the home that could not yield them 

bread ; 
Grief mark'd each face receding from the view, 
'Twas grief to nature honourably true. 
And long, poor wanderers o'er the ecliptic deep, 
The song that names but home shall make you 

weep : 
Oft shall ye fold your Hocks by stars above 
In that far world, and miss the stars ye love ; 
Oft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn. 
Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn, 
And, giving England's names to distant scenes, 
Lament that earth's extension intervenes. 

But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, 
Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain : 
For has the heart no interest yet as bland 
As that which binds us to our native land ? 



292 LINES. 

The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our 

hearth, 
To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth, 
TJndamp'd by dread that want may e'er unhouse, 
Or servile misery knit those smiling brows : 
The pride to rear an independent shed, 
And give the lips we love unborrow'd bread: 
To see a world, from shadowy forests won, 
In youthful beauty wedded to the sun ; 
To skirt our home with harvests widely sown, 
And call the blooming landscape all our own. 
Our children's heritage, in prospect long. 
These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and 

strong. 
That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine, 
To realms where foreign constellations shine ; 
Where streams from undiscover'd fountains roll, 
And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic 

pole. 
And what though doom'd to shores so far apart 
From England's home, that ev'n the homesick 

heart 
Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recross'd, 
How large a space of fleeting life is lost : 
•Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, 
And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, 
But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, 
That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home. 

There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring 
New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring. 



LINES. 293 

The gray-hair'd swain, his grandchild sporting 

round, 
Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound, 
Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, 
And verdant rampart of acacian thorn. 
While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, 
The orange grove's and fig-tree's breath pre* 

vails ; 
Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil, 
His honest arm's own subjugated soil ; 
And, summing all the blessings God has given. 
Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven, 
That, when his bones shall here repose in peace, 
The scions of his love may still increase, 
And o'er a land where life has ample room. 
In health and plenty innocently bloom. 

Delightful land, in wildness ev'n benign, 
The glorious past is ours, the future thine ! 
As in a cradled Hercules, we trace 
The lines of empire in thine infant face. 
Wliat nations in thy wide horizon's span 
Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man ! 
What spacious cities with their spires shall glf am, 
Where now tlie panther laps a lonely stream, 
And all but brute or reptile life is dumb ! 
Land of the free ! thy kingdom is to come. 
Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst. 
And creeds by charter'd priesthoods unaccurst : 
Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd fiags. 
Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags 



294 LINES. 

Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares, 
Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs,— 
For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire, 
And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire :— 
Our very speech, methinks, in after-time, 
Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime ; 
And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies 
Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, 
The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous 

rise. 
Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, 
Undug the ore that 'midst thy roofs shall shine ; 
Unborn the hands — but born tliey are to be — 
Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee 
Proud temple-domes, with gallcrii s winding 

high, 
So vast in space, so just in symmetry, 
They Aviden to the contemplating eye. 
With colonnaded aisles in long array, 
And windows that enrich the Hood of day 
O'er tessellated pavements, pictures fair, 
And niched statues breathino; jjolden air. 
Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy 

swell, 
Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell ; 
But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, 
And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound. 
Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their 

goal. 
How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll I 



k 



LINES. 295 

Kv'n should some wayward hour the settler's 

mind 
Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind, 
Yet not a pang that England's name imparts 
Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts ; 
Bound to that native land by nature's bond, 
Full little shall their wishes rove beyond 
Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams, 
Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their 

dreams. 
How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, 
Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, 
And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's 

chords 
As aught that 's named in song to us affords ! 
Dear shall that river's margin be to him, 
Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb. 
Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers. 
Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers. 
But more magnetic yet to memory 
Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh. 
The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd, 
And smiling passion saw its smile return'd. 
Go forth and prosper then, emprising band : 
May He, who in the hollow of his hand 
The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep, 
*issuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep ! 

1828, 



296 



LINES 

ON REVISITING CATHCART. 

Oil ! scenes of my childhood* and dear to my heart, 
Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, 
How blest in the morning of life I have stray'd, 
By the stream of the vale and the grass-cover'd 
glade ! 

Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, 
Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimm'd by a tear, 
And a sweeter delight every scene seem'd to lend, 
That the mansion of peace was the home of a 

FRIEND. 

Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my 

heart, 
All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart ; 
Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to 

cease, 
For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. 

But hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains, 
While Friendship and all its enchantment remains, 
While it blooms like the flower of a winterlesa 

clime, 
Untainted by chance, unabated by time. 



297 



THE CHERUBS. 

SUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE IN THE WORKS OF 

FRANKLIN. 

Two spirits reach'd this world of ours : 
The lightning's locomotive powers 

Were slow to their agility : 
In broad day-light they moved incog., 
Enjoying without mist or fog, 

Entire invisibility. 

The one, a simple cherub lad, 
Much interest in our planet had. 

Its face was so romantic ; 
He couldn't persuade himself that man 
Was such as heavenly rumours ran, 

A being base and frantic. 

The elder spirit, wise and cool. 
Brought down the youth as to a school ; 

But strictly on condition, 
Whatever they should see or hear. 
With mortals not to interfere ; 

'Twas not in their commission. 

They reach'd a sovereign city proud, 
Whose emperor pray'd to God aloud, 



298 THE CHERUBS. 

With all his people kneeling, 
And priests perform*d religious rites : 
" Come," said the younger of the spriteSj 

" This shows a pious feeling." 

YOUNG SPIRIT. 

"Ar'n't these a decent godly race ? " 

OLD SPIRIT. 

" The dirtiest thieves on Nature's face." 

YOUNG SPIRIT. 

" But hark, what cheers they 're giving 
Their emperor ! — And is he a thief? " 

OLD SPIRIT. 

"Ay, and a cut-throat too ; — in brief, 

The GREATEST SCOUNDREL LIVING." 
YOUNG SPIRIT. 

" But say, what were they praying for, 
This people and their emperor ? " 

OLD SPIRIT. 

" "Why, for God's assistance 
To help their army, late sent out : 
And what that army is about. 

You '11 se© at no great distance." 

On wings outspeeding mail or post, 
Our sprites o'ertook the imperial host, 



THE CHERUBS. 290 

In massacres it wallow'd : 
A noble nation met its hordes, 
But broken fell their cause and swords, 

Unfortunate, though hallo w'd. 

They saw a late bombarded town, 

Its streets still warm with blood ran down ; 

Still smoked each burning rafter ; 
And hideously, 'midst rape and sack. 
The murderer's laugliter answer'd back 

His prey's convulsive laughter. 

They saw the captive eye the dead, 
With envy of his gory bed, — 

Death's quick reward of bravery: 
They heard the clank of chains, and then 
Saw thirty thousand bleeding men 

Dragg'd manacled to slavery. 

" Fie ! fie ! " the younger heavenly spark 
Exclaim'd : — " we must have miss'd our mark, 

And enter'd hell's own portals : 
Earth can't be stain'd with crimes so black ; 
Nay, sure, we 've got among a pack 

Of fiends, and not of mortals ? " 

" No," said the elder ; " no such thing : 
Fiends are not fools enough to wring 

The necks of one another : — 
They know their interests too well : 



300 THE CHERUBS. 

Men fight ; but every devil in hell 
Lives friendly with his brother. 

And I could point you out some fellows, 
On this ill-fated planet Tellus, 

In royal power that revel ; 
Who, at the opening of the book 
Of judgment, may have cause to look 

With envy at the devil." 

Name but the devil, and he'll appear. 
Old Satan in a trice was near, 

With smutty face and figure : 
But spotless spirits of the skies 
Unseen to e'en his saucer eyes, 

Could watch the fiendish nigger. 

" Halloo ! " he cried, " I smell a trick : 
A mortal supersedes Old Nick, 

The scourge of earth appointed : 
He robs me of my trade, outrants 
The blasphemy of hell, and vaunts 

Himself the Lord's anointed ! 

Folks make a fuss about my mischief: 

D d fools ; they tamely suffier this chief 

To play his pranks unbounded." 
The cherubs flew ; but saw from high, 
At human inhumanity. 

The devil himself astounded, 

1832. 



301 



SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL 
IDOL. 

Platonic friendship at your years, 
Says Conscience, should content ye : 

Nay, name not fondness to her ears, 
The darling 's scarcely twenty. 

Yes, and she '11 loathe me unforgiven, 

To dote thus out of season ; 
But beauty is a beam from heaven, 
- That dazzles blind our reason. 

I '11 challenge Plato from the skies, 

Yes, from his spheres harmonic 
To look in M — y C 's eyes. 

And try to be Platonic 



302 



TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, 

ON niS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AD- 
GUST 7, 1832, RESPECTING THE FOREIGN 
POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. 

BuRDETT, enjoy thy justly foremost fame, 

Through good and ill report — through calm 
and storm — 

For forty years the pilot of reform ! 
But that which shall afresh entwine thy name 

With patriot laurels never to be sere, 
Is that thou hast come nobly forth to chide 
Our slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride — 

Their flattery of Oppressors, and their fear — 
When Britain's lifted finger, and her frown. 
Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants 
down ! 

Invoke the scorn — Alas ! too few inherit 

The scorn for despots cherish'd by our sires, 
That baffled Europe's persecuting fires. 

And shelter'd helpless states ! — Recall that spirit, 
And conjure back Old England's haughty 
mind — 

Convert the men who waver now, and pause 
Between their love of self and humankind ; 



I 



TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. 303 

And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone — 
The hearts that have been deaf to Poland's dying 
groan ! 

Tell them, we hold the Rights of Man too dear, 

To bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest ; 

But could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, 
To breathe untroubled Freedom's atmosphere ? — 

Suppose we wish'd it ? England could not Ftand 
A lone oasis in the desert ground 
Of Europe's slavery ; from the waste around 

Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand 
"Would reach and scathe us ? No ; it may not be : 
Britannia and the world conjointly must be free ! 

Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad 
Soft greetings to th' infanticidal Czar, 
The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war. 
Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed 

A lion, and he dropt her lifted child ; 
But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law, 
Nor Poland's shrieking mothers, overawe, 
Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch : 
Shrink, Britain — shrink, my king and country, 
from the touch ! 

He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says — 
And dares he to the God of mercy kneel, 
Besmear'd with massacres from head to heel? 

No ; Moloch is his God — to liim he prays 



304 ODE TO THE GERMANS. 

And if bis weird-like prayers had power H 
bring 
An influence, their power would be to curse. 
His liate is baleful, but his love is worse — 

A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting ! 
Oh, feeble statesmen — ignominious times, 
That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon hig 



cnmes i 



1832. 



ODE TO THE GERMANS. 

The spirit of Britannia 

Invokes, across the main, 
Her sister Allemannia 

To burst the Tyrant's chain : 
By our kindred blood, she cries, 
Rise, Allemannians, rise, 

And hallow'd thrice the band 
Of our kindred hearts shall be. 

When your land shall be the land 
Of the free — of the free I 

"With Freedom's lion-banner 

Britannia rules tlie waves ; 
Whilst your broad stone of honour ^ 

1 Ehrenbreitstein signifies, in German, ■' the broad stone oj 
honour^ 



ODE TO THE GERMANS. 305 

Is still the camp of slaves. 
For shame, for glory's sake, 

Wake, Allemannians, wake. 

And thy tyrants now that whelm 
Half the world shall quail and flee, 

When yonr realm shall be the realm 
Of the free — of the free I 

Mars owes to you his thunder^ 

That shakes the battle field, 
Yet to break your bonds asunder 

No martial bolt has peal'd. 
Shall the laurell'd land of art 
Wear shackles on her heart ? 

No ! the clock ye framed to tell. 
By its sound, the march of time ; 

Let it clang oppression's knell 

O'er your clime — o'er your clime I 

The press's magic letters, 

That blessing ye brought forth, — 
Behold ! it lies in fetters 

On the soil that gave it birth : 
But the trumpet must be heard, 
And the charger must be spurr'd ; 

For your father Armin's Sprite 
Calls down from heaven, that ye 

Shall gird you for the fight, 

And be free ! — and be free ! 

1831. 

* GeiTnany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and printing. 

20 



30G 



LINES 

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF 
PRAYER. 

By the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney. 

Was man e'er doom'd that beauty made 
By mimic heart should haunt him ; 

Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, 
And dote upon a phantom. 

Thou maid that in my inmost thought 

Art fancifully sainted, 
Why liv'st thou not — why art thou nought 

But canvas sweetly painted ? 

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies, 

Too pure for love of mortals — 
As if they drew angelic eyes 

To greet thee at heaven's portals. 

Yet loveliness has here no grace. 

Abstracted or ideal — 
Art ne'er but from a living face 

Drew looks so seemino; real. 



LINES. 307 

What wert thou, maid ? — thy life — thy name. 

Oblivion hides in mystery ; 
Though from thy face my heart could frame 

A long romantic history. 

Transported to thy time I seem, 

Though dust thy coffin covers — 
And hear the songs, in fancy's dream. 

Of thy devoted lovers. 

How witching must have been thy breath — 

How sweet the living charmer — 
Whose every semblance after death 

Can make the heart grow warmer ! 

Adieu, the charms that vainly move 

My soul in their possession — 
That prompt ray lips to speak of love. 

Yet rob them of expression. 

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised 

AVas but a poet's duty ; 
And shame to him that ever jxazed 

Impassive on thy beauty. 

1830. 



308 



LINES 

ON THE VIEW" FROM ST. LEONARD'S. 

Ha iL to thy face and odours, glorious Sea ! 
'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, 
Great beauteous Being! in whose breath and 

smile 
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind 
Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer 
Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world ! 
Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din 
To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. 
Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes 
With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, 
And gardens haunted by the nightingale's 
Long trills and gushing ecstasies of song, 
For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's 

clang — 

"With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, 

I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades 

And green savannahs — Earth has not a plain 

So boundless or so beautiful as thine ; 

The eagle's vision cannot take it in : 

The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, 



LINES 309 

Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird : 
It is the mirror of the stars, where all 
Their hosts within the concave firmament, 
Gay marching to the music of the spheres, 
Can see themselves at once. 

Nor on the stage 
Of rural landscape are there lights and shades 
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. 
How vividly tliis moment brightens forth, 
Between gray parallel and leaden breadths, 
A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, 
Flush'd like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck, 
And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing 
The semblance of a meteor. 

Mighty Sea ! 
Cameleon-like thou changest, but there 's love 
In all thy change, and constant sympathy 
With yonder Sky — thy Mistress ; from her brow 
Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colours ob 
Thy faithful bosom ; morning's milky Avhite, 
Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ; 
And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, 
Have such divine complexion — crisped smiles, 
Luxuriant heavings and sweet whisperings, 
That little is the wonder Love's own Queen 
From thee of old was fabled to have sprung — 
Creation's common ! which no human power 
Can parcel or inclose ; the lordliest floods 
And cataracts that the tiny hands of man 
Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew 



310 LINES. 

To Ihce that could'st subdue the Earth itself, 
And brook'st commandment from the heavens 
For marshalling thy waves — [alone 

Yet, potent Sea! 
How placidly thy moist lips speak ev'n now 
Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be 
So fanciless as to feel no gratitude 
That power and grandeur can be so serene, 
Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful ^vay, 
And rocking ev'n the fisher's little bark 
As gently as a mother rocks her child ? — 

The inhabitants of other worlds behold 

Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share 

On earth's rotundity ; and is he not 

A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man 

Who sees not or who seeing has no joy 

In thy magnificence ? What though thou art 

Unconscious and material, thou canst reach 

The inmost immaterial mind's recess. 

And with thy tints and motion stir its chords 

To music, like the light on Memnon's lyre ! 

The Spirit of the Universe in thee 
Is vibible ; thou hast in thee the life — 
The eternal, graceful, and majestic life 
Of nature, and the natural human heart 
Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. 
Earth has her gorgeous towns ; the earth-circling 
sea 



LINES. 311 

Has spires and mansions more amusive still — 
Men's volant homes that measure liquid space 
On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land 
With pain'd and panting steeds and clouds of 

dust 
Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair 
Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, 
Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by 

day, 
Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the 

night, 
Moor'd as they cast the shadows of their masts 
In long array, or hither flit and yond 
Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, 
Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. 

There is a magnet-like attraction in 

Tliese waters to the imaginative power 

Tiiat links the viewless with the visible. 

And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond 

Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, 

When by her tall and triple mast we know 

Some noble voyager that has to woo 

The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. 

The coral groves — the shores of conch and pearl, 

Where she will cast her anchor and reflect 

Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, 

And under planets brighter than our own: 

The nights of palmy isles, that she will see 

Lit boundless by the flre-fly — all the smells 



312 LINES. 

Of tropic fruits that will regale her — all 
The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting 
Varieties of life she has to greet, 
Come swarmina: o'er the meditative mind. 

True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has 
His darker tints ; but where 's the element 
That chequers not its usefulness to man 
With casual terror ? Scathes not Earth some- 
times 
Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes 
Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang 
Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat 
As riddled ashes — silent as the grave ? 
AValks not Contagion on the Air itself? 
I should — old Ocean's Saturnalian days 
And roaring nights of revelry and sport 
With wreck and human woe — be loth to sing ; 
For they are few, and all their ills weigh light 
Against his sacred usefulness, that bids 
Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. 
Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks re- 
ceive 
Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool 
Their wings to fan the brow of fever'd climes, 
And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn 
For showers to glad the earth. 

Old Ocean was 
Infinity of ages ere we breathed 
Existence — and he will be beautiful 



LINES. 313 

When all the living world that sees him now 

Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. 

Quelling from age to age the vital throb 

In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate 

The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, 

Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound 

In thundering concert with the quiring winds ; 

But long as Man to parent Nature owns 

Instinctive homage, and in times beyond 

The power of thought to reach, bard after bard 

Shall sing thy glory. Beatific Sea. 

1831. 



Campbell, who was peculiarly impartial in judging of the 
merit of his own productions, more than once expressed an 
opinion that these Imes were liis be»t, as being the most ma- 
lurtd. 



3U 



THE DEAD EAGLE. 

WRITTEN AT ORAN. 

Fall'n as he is, this king of birds still seems 

Like royalty in ruins. Though his eyes 

Are shut, that look undazzled on the sun, 

He was the sultan of the sky, and earth 

Paid tribute to his eyry. It was perch'd 

Higher than human conqueror ever built 

His banner'd fort. Where Atlas' top looks o'er 

Zahara's desert to the equator's line : 

From thence the winged despot raark'd his prey, 

Above th' encampments of the Bedouins, ere 

Their watchfires were extinct, or camels knelt 

To take their loads, or horsemen scour'd the plain, 

And there he dried his feathers in the dawn. 

Whilst yet th' unwaken'd world was dark below. 

There 's such a charm in natural strength and 

power. 
That human fancy has for ever paid 
Poetic homanre to the bird of Jove. 
Hence, 'neatli his image, Rome array'd her turma 
And cohorts for the conquest of the world. 
And figuring his flight, the mind is fill'd 



THE DEAD EAGLE. 315 

"With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless 

man. 
True the carr'd aeronaut can mount as high ; 
But what 's the triumph of his vohint art ? 
A rash intrusion on tlie realms of air. 
His helraless vehicle, a silken toy, 
A bubble bursting in the thunder-cloud ; 
His course has no volition, and he drifts 
The passive plaything of the winds. Not such 
Was this proud bird ; he clove the adverse storm, 
And cufF'd it with his wings. He stopp'd his 

flight 
As easily as the Arab reins his steed, 
And stood at pleasure 'neath Heaven's zenith, 

like 
A lamp suspended from its azure dome. 
Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay 
Like mole hills, and her streams like lucid threads. 
Then downward, faster than a falling star. 
He near'd the earth, until his shape distinct 
Was blackly shadow'd on the sunny ground ; 
And deeper terror hush'd the wilderness. 
To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again 
He soar'd and wheel'd. There was an air of scorn 
In all his movements, Avhether he threw round 
His crested head to look behind him ; or 
Lay vertical and sportively display'd 
The inside whiteness of his wing declined, 
In gyres and undulations full of grace, 
An object beautifying Heaven itself. 



316 THE DEAD EAGLE. 

He — reckless who was victor, and above 
The hearing of their guns — saw fleets engaged 
In flaming combat. It was nought to him 
"What carnage, Moor or Christian, strew'd thoU 

decks. 
But if his intellect had match'd his wings, 
Methinks he would have scorn'd man's vaunted 

power 
To plough the deep ; his pinions bore him down 
To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves, 
That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves ; 
And traversed in an hour a wider space 
Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails 
"Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. 
His bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart. 
His talons anchor'd on the stormiest cliiF, 
And on the very light-house rock he perch'd. 
When winds churn'd white the waves. 

The earthquake's self 
Disturb'd not him that memorable day, 
When, o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built, 
Cathedrals, cannon'd forts, and palaces, 
A palsy stroke of Nature shook Oran, 
Turning her city to a sepulchre. 
And strewing into rubbish all her homes ; 
Amidst whose traceable foundations now. 
Of streets and squares, the hyaena hides himself. 
That hour beheld him fly as careless o'er 
The stifled shrieks of thousands buried quick, 
As lately when he pounced the speckled snake, 



THE DEAD EAGLE. 317 

CoilM in yon mallows and wide nettle fields 
That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town. 

Strange is the imagination's dread delight 
In objects link'd with danger, death and pain ! 
Fresh from the luxuries of polish'd life, 
The echo of these wilds enchanted me ; 
And my heart beat with joy when first I heard 
A lion's roar come down the Lybian wind. 
Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake, 
Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to 

shore. 
And yet Numidia's landscape has its spots 
Of pastoral j^leasantness — though far between, 
The village planted near the Maraboot's 
Round roof has aye its feathery palm trees 
Pair'd, for in solitude they bear no fruits. 
Here nature's hues all harmonize — fields white 
With alasum, or blue with bugloss — banks 
Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild. 
And sunflowers, like a garment prankt with gold ; 
Acres and miles of opal asphodel, 
Where sports and couches the black-eyed gazelle. 
Here, too, the air 's harmonious — deep-toned doves 
Coo to the fife-like carol of the lark ; 
And when they cease, the holy niglitingale 
Winds up his long, long shakes of ecstasy. 
With notes that seem but the protracted sounds 
Of glassy runnels bubbling over rocks. 



318 



SONG. 

To Love in my heart, I exclaim'd t'other morning, 
Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take 

warning ; 
Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober 

duty. 
To go gadding, bewitch'd by the young eyes of 

beauty. 
For weary 's the wooing, ah, weary ! 
When an old man will have a young dearie. 

The god left my heart, at its surly reflections. 
But came back on pretext of some sweet recol- 
lections, 
And he made me forget what I ought to remember, 
That the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in 
November. 
Ah ! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days — 
Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. 

But time 's been so far from my wisdom enriching, 
That the longer I live, beauty seems more be- 
witching ; 



SONG. 319 

And the only new lore my experience traces, 
Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. 

How weary is wisdom, how weary ! 
When one sits by a smiling young dearie ! 

And should she be wroth that my homage j ur- 

sues her, 
I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser ; 
Who 's to blame, that my heart by your image is 

liaunted — 
It is you, the enchantress — not I, the enchanted. 

Would you have me behave more discreetly. 
Beauty, look not so liillingly sWeetly. 



320 



LINES 

WRITTEX I^ A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE'B 
VOYAGES. 

Loved Voyager ! his pages had a zest 
]More sweet than fiction to my wondering breast, 
When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day 
I track'd his wanderings o'er the watery way, 
Roam'd round the Aleutian isles in waking dreamSj 
Or pluck'd i\\Q Jleur-de-lys by Jesso's streams — 
Or gladly leap'd on that far Tartar strand, 
Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand, 
Where scarce a roving wild tribe cross'd the plain, 
Or human voice broke nature's silent reign ; 
But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear. 
And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare. 
Such young delight his real records brought. 
His truth so touch'd romantic springs of thought, 
That all my after-life — his fate and fame 
Entwined romance with La Perouse's name. — 
Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, 
And glorious was th' emprise of La Perouse, — 
Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him, 
When many a guilty martial fame is dim : 
He plough'd the deep to bind no captive's chain — 



LINES. 321 

Pursued no rapine — strew'd no wreck with slain ; 
And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, 
His heroes pluck'd no wreath from human woe. 
*Twas his the earth's remotest bound to scan, 
Conciliating with gifts barbaric man — 
Enrich the world's contemporaneous mind, 
And amplify the picture of mankind. 
Far on the vast Pacific — 'midst those isles, 
O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, 
He sounded and gave charts to many a shore 
And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ; 
Yet he that led Discovery o'er the wave, 
Still fills himself an nndiscovcr'd grave. 
He came not back, — Conjecture's cheek grew pale, 
Year after year — in no propitious gale. 
His lilied banner held its homeward way, 
And Science sadden'd at her martyr's stay. 
An age elapsed — no wreck told where or when 
The chief went down with all his gallant men, 
Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood 
He perish'd, or by wilder men of blood — 
The shuddering Fancy only guess'd his doom. 
And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. 
An age elapsed — when men were dead or gray. 
Whose hearts had mourn'd him in their youthful 

day; 
Fame traced on Mannicolo's shore at last, 
The boilinor surge had mounted o'er his mast. 
The islemen told of some surviving men, 
But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again. 
21 



3^2 LINES. 

Sad bourne of all his toils — with all his baud — 
To sleep, wreck'd, shroudless, on a savage strand I 
Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn 
Of death ? — the hope to live in hearts unborn : 
Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, 
But worth — foretasting fame, that follows death. 
That worth had La Perouse — that meed he won ; 
He sleeps — his life's long stormy watch is done. 
In the great deep, whose boundaries and space 
He measured. Fate ordain'd his resting-place ; 
But bade his fame, like th' Ocean j:*olling o'er 
His relics — visit every earthly shore. 
Fair Science on that Ocean's azure robe 
Still writes his name in picturing the globe, 
And paints — (what fairer wreath could glory 

twine ?) 
His watery course — a world-encircling line. 

183L 



TO 

WILLIAM BEATTIE, M.D., 

IN REMEMBRANCE 

OF LONG-SUBSISTING AND MUTUAL FRIENDSHIP 

THE POEM "GLENCOE" 

AND THE OTHER PIECES THAT FOLLOW 

IN THIS VOLUME, 

ARE INSCRIBED 

Br 

THE AUTHOR. 

London, 

JDec&nber^ 1842. 



THE 



PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 



I 



THE riLGRBI OF GLEXCOE 

1 KECEiVED the substance of the tradition on which this 
Poem is founded, in the first instance, from a friend in Lon- 
don, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. 
He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of 
the tradition ; and tliat gentleman's knowledge of the High- 
lands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district 
of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really 
happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the 
tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald; only I have 
endeavoured to colour the personages of the story, and to 
oiake them as distinctive as possible. 

The sunset sheds a horizontal smile 
O'er Highland frith and Hebridean isle, 
While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, 
The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls 
With streamer'd busses, tliat distinctly shine 
All downward, pictured in the glassy brine ; 
Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, 
Keep measure with their oars, and all in one 
Strike up th' old Gaelic song. — Sweep, rowers, 

sweep ! 
The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep. 

Day sinks — but twilight owes the traveller soon, 
To reach his bourne, a round uncloud(;d moon. 



326 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Bespeaking long undarken'd hours of time ; 
False liope — the Scots are steadfast — not their 

clime. 
A war-worn soldier from the western land 
Seeks Cona's vale by Ballihoula's strand ; 
The vale, by eagle-haunted cliiFs o'erhung, 
Where Fingal fought and Ossian's harp was 

strung — 
Our veteran's forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, 
Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns j 
He well could vouch the sad romance of wars, 
And count the dates of battles by his scars ; 
For he had served where o'er ;ind o'er again 
Britannia's oriflamme had lit the plain 
Of glory — and victorious stamp'd iiir name 
On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame. 
Nine times in battle-field his blood had stream'd, 
Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleam'd ; 
Full well he bore his knapsack — unoppress'd, 
And march'd with soldier-like erected crest : 
Nor sign of ev'n loquacious age he wore, 
Save when he told his life's adventures o'er ; 
Some tired of these ; for terms to him were 

dear 
Too tactical by far for vulgar ear ; 
As when he talk'd of rampart and ravine, 
And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine — 
But when his theme possess'd him all and whole, 
He scorn'd proud puzzling words and warm'd the 

soul ; 



THE PILGROI OF GLEXCOE. 327 

Hush'd groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, 
That sketched old scenes — like pictures to their 

eyes :— 
The wide war-plain, witli banners glowing bright, 
And bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight ; 
The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come 
From volleys blazing at the beat of drum — 
Till all the field of thundering lines became 
Two level and confronted sheets of » flame. 
Then to the charge, when Marlbro's hot pursuit 
Trode France's gilded lilies underfoot ; 
He came and kindled — and with martial lung 
Would chant the very march their trumpets sung. — 

Th' old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should 

' fail, 
To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale ; 
But looking at Bennevis, capp'd with snow, 
He saw its mists come curling down below, 
And spread white darkness o'er the sunset 

glow ; — 
Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean's spray. 
Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery day — 
So dense, his quarry 'scaped the falcon's sight, 
The owl alone exulted, hating light. 

Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground, 
Half 'twixt the river's and the cataract's sound. 
At last a sheep-dog's bark inform'd his ear 
Some human habitation might be near ; 



-328 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock,— 
'Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock. 
Ere long the cock's obstreperous clarion rang, 
And next, a ma'i's sweet voice, that spinning sang 
At last amidst the green-sward (gladsome sight !) 
A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright. 

He knock'd, was welcomed in ; none ask'd his 

name. 
Nor whither he was bound nor whence he came ; 
But he Avas beckon'd to the stranger's seat, 
Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. 
Blest Hospitality makes not her home 
In walled parks and castellated dome ; 
She flies the city's needy greedy crowd. 
And shuns still more the mansions of the proud 
The balm of savage or of simple life, 
A wild flower cut by culture's polish'd knife ! 

The house, no common sordid shieling cot. 
Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. 
The Jacobite white rose festoon'd their door ; 
The windows sash'd and glazed, the oaken floor, 
The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, 
The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, 
And all the mansion, indicated plain 
Its master a superior shepherd swain. 

Their supper came — the table soon was spread 
With eggs and milk and cheep e and barley bread. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 329 

The family were three — a father hoar, 

"Whose age you 'd guess at seventy years cr 

more, 
His son look'd fifty — cheerful like her lord 
His comely wife presided at the board ; 
All three had that peculiar courteous grace 
Which marks the meanest of the Highland race ; 
Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, 
As if the north-wind fann'd their bosoms' glow ! 
But wide unlike their souls : old Norman's eye 
Was proudly savage ev'n in courtesy. 
His sinewy shoulders — each, though aged and 

lean, 
Broad as the curl'd Herculean head between, — 
His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire. 
And nostrils that dilated quick with ire. 
With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, 
Mark'd the old lion you would dread to rouse. 

Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life 
In raids of red revenge and feudal strife ; 
Religious duty in revenge he saw. 
Proud Honour's right and Nature's honest law ; 
First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, 
Long-breath'd, deep-chested, and in speed of foot 
A match for stags — still fleeter wher the prey 
Was man, in persecution's evil day ; 
Cheer'd to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, 
No Highland hound had lapp'd more blood than 
he. 



330 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Oft had he changed the covenanter's breath 
From howls of psalmod j to howls of death ; 
And though long bound to peace, it irk'd him still 
His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill. 

Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock 

Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock 

"Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and 

cant ; — 
He slew and saved them from the pangs of want. 
Nor was his solitary lawless charm 
!Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm ; 
He had his moods of kindness now and then, 
And feasted ev'n well-manner'd lowland men 
Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, 
Nor prefaced \rith " pretender " Charles's name. 
Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, 
He loved, respected ev'n, his wiser son ; 
And brook'd from him expostulations sage, 
When all advisers else were spurn'd with rage. 

Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind, 
By mtture too of more sagacious kind. 
His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, 
Squared Avell with the firm man that reign'd 

within. 
Contemning strife as childishness, 1 e stood 
With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood, 
And whilst his father's anger nought avail'd, 
His rational remonstrance never fail'd. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 33- 

Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, 
Wrote, cipher'd, profitably bought and sold ; 
And, bless'd with pastoral leisure, deeply took 
Delight to be inform'd, by speech or book, 
Of that wide -world beyond his mountain home, 
"Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. 
Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, 
He read long hours when summer warm'd the 
rock : [warm, 

Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed 
Ev'n pedlars' news had to his mind a charm ; 
That like an intellectual magnet-stone 
Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own, 

His soul's proud instinct sought not to enjoy 
Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy ; 
Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth 
He worshipp'd — stern uncompromising truth. 
His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find 
A votary of her light in land so blind ; 
She bade majestic History unroll 
Broad views of public welftire to his soul, 
Until he look'd on clannish feuds and foes 
With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows ; 
Whilst doubts assail'd him o'er and o'er again, 
If men were made for kinn-s or kinj^s for men. 
At last, to Norman's horror and dismay. 
He flat denied the Stuarts' right to sway. 
No blow-pipe ever whiten'd furnace fire. 
Quick as these words lit up his father's ire; 



332 THE PILGKIM OF GLENCOE. 

Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, 

Ordain'd to put his onlj son to death. 

He started up — in such a mood of soul 

The white bear bites his showman's stirring pole 

He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and 

howl, 
''ODia! Dia!" and, « Dioul ! Dioul ! " ^ 
But sense foils fury — as the blowing whale 
Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without 

avail — 
Wears out the cable's length that makes him fast, 
But, w^orn himself, comes up harpoon'd at last — 
E'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length 
Mere stren^j-th of zeal to intellectual stren^-th. 
His son's close logic so perplex'd his pate, 
Th' old hero rather shunn'd than sought debate ; 
Exhausting his vocabulary's store 
Of oaths and nicknames, he could say no more. 
But tapp'd his mull,^ roll'd mutely in his chair. 
Or only whistled Killiecrankie' s air. 

Witch-legends Ronald scorn'd — ghost, kelpie, 

wraith, 
And all the trumpery of vulgar faith ; 
Grave matrons ev'n were shock'd to hear him 

slight 
Authenticated facts of second-sight — 

1 God and the devil —a favourite ejaculation of Highland 
Faints. 

2 Snuff-horn. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 333 

Yet never flinch'd his mockery to confound 
The brutal superstition reigning round. 
Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan 
Men's natures — and he liked the old hearty man ; 
So did the partner of his heart and life — 
Who pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his 

wife. 
His sense, 'tis true, compared with Norman's son, 
"Was commonplace — his tales too long outspun : 
Yet Allan Campbell's sympathizing mind 
Had held large intercourse with humankind ; 
Seen much, and gaily graphically drew 
The men of every country, clime, and hue ; 
Nor ever stoop'd, though soldier-like his strain, 
To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. 
All went harmonious till the guest began 
To talk about his kindred, chief and clan. 
And, with his own biography engross'd, 
Mark'd not the changed demeanour of each host ; 
Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became 
riush'd at the Campbell and Breadalbane n%me. 
Assigning, heedless of impending harm. 
Their steadfast silence to his story's charm, 
He touch'd a subject perilous to touch — 
Saying, " 'Midst this well-known vale I wonderd 

much 
To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, 
I roam'd, and loved each pathway of Glencoe ; 
Trapp'd leverets, pluck'd wild berries on its braes, 
And fish'd along its banks long summer days 



334 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

But times grew stormy — bitter feuds arose, 

Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. 

I never palliated my chieftain's blame, 

But mourn'd the sin, and redden'd for the shame 

Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year !) 

"Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming 

ear. 
"What could I do ? a serf — Glenlyon's page, 
A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age ; 
T* have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our 

chief, 
The pit or gallows^ would have cured my grief. 
Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, 
I march'd — when, feigning roj^alty's command, 
Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's lord 
Sent forth exterminating fire and sword ; 
And troops at midnight' through the vale defiled, 
Enjoin'd to slaughter woman, man, and child. 
My clansmen many a year had cause to dread 
The curse that day entail'd upon their head ; 
Glenlyon's self confess'd th' avenging spell — 
I saw it light on him. 

" It so befell :—- 
A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, 
By sentence deem'd too dreadful for his fault} 
All was prepared — the coffin and the cart 
Stood near twelve muskets, levell'd at his heart. 

1 To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dun- 
geon, was a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had heredi- 
tary jurisdictions. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE, 335 

The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some 

room, 
Obtain'd reprieve a day before his doom ; — 
But of the awarded boon surmised no breath. 
The sufferer kneh, blindfolded waiting death, — 
And met it. Though Glenljon had desired 
The musketeers to watch before they fired ; 
If from his pocket they should see he drew 
A handkerchief — their volley should ensue ; 
But if he held a paper in its place, 
It should be hail'd the sign of pardoning grace : — 
He, in a fatal moment's absent fit, 
Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ ; 
Wept o'er the corpse and wrung his hands in woe, 
Crying, ' Here 's thy curse again — Glencoe ! 

Glencoe!'" 
Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and 

clear, 
The cabin's patriarch lent impatient ear ; 
"Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man 
Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell 

' clan ; 
He hasten'd to the door — call'd out his son 
To follow ; walk'd a space, and thus begun : — 
" You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn 
The oath I took beside my father's cairn. 
When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born ; 
Sworn on my dirk — by all that 's sacred, sworn 
To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven- 
Blood unforgiveablc, and unforgiven : 



336 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

But never power, since then, have I possess'd 
To plant mj dagger in a Campbell's breast. 
Now, here 's a self-accusing partisan, 
Steep'd in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan ; 
I scorn his ci^ul speech and sweet-lipp'd show 
Of pity — he is still our house's foe : 
I '11 perjure not myself — but sacrifice 
The caitiff ere to-morrow 's sun arise. 
Stand ! hear me — you 're my son, the deed is just ; 
And if I say — it must be done — it must : 
A debt of honour which my clansmen crave, 
Their very dead demand it from the grave." 
Conjuring then their ghosts^ he humbly pray'd 
Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid. 
But Ronald stopp'd him. — ^^ Sir, Sir, do not dim 
Your honour by a moment's angry whim ; 
Your soul 's too just and generous, were you cool, 
To act at once th' assassin and the fool. 
Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, 
And I will dirk them willingly as you ! 
But all the real authors of that bJack 
Old deed are gone — you cannot bring them back. 
And this poor guest, 'tis palpable to judge. 
In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge ; 
Dragg'd when a boy against his will to share 
That massacre, he loath'd the foul affair. 
Think, if your harden'd heart be consrieRce-f^Krr)^ 
To stab a stranger underneatli your roof 1 
One who has broken bread within your g^^?- ' 
Reflect — ^before reflection comes too late, — 



THE PILGllIil OF GLENCOE. 337 

Such uglj consequences there may be 
As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. 
The days of dirking snugly are gone by, 
Where could you hide the body privily 
When search is made for 't ? " 

" Plunge it in yon flood, 
That Campbells crimson'd with our kindred blood." 
*'Ay, but the corpse may float — " 

" Pshaw ! dead men tell 
No tales — nor will it float if leaded well. 
1 am determined ! " — What could Ronald do ? 
No house within ear-reach of his halloo, 
Though that would but have publish'd household 

shame, 
He temporized w^ith wrath he could not tame, 
And said " Come in, till night put off the deed, 
And ask a few more questions ere he bleed." 
They enter'd ; Norman with portentous air 
Strode to a nook behind the stranger's chair, 
And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade. 
With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. 
His son's own plaid, should Norman pounce his 

prey. 
Was coil'd thick round his arm, to turn away 
Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free 
The door, and giving Allan time to flee, 
Whilst he should wrestle with, (no safe emprise,) 
His father's maniac strength and giant size. 
Meanwhile he could nowise communicate 
The impending peri^ to his anxious mate ; 
22 



338 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

But she, convinced no trifllnp; matter now 
Disturb'd the wonted cahn of Ronald's brow, 
Divined too well the canse of gloom that lower' d, 
And sat with speechless terror overpowered, 
Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, 
The stockin<2i: knittin2;-wire shook in her hand. 
But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread 
Of converse, still its theme that day of dread. 
" Much," said the veteran, " much as I bemoan 
That deed, when half a hundred years have flown, 
Still on one circumstance I can reflect 
That mitigates the dreadful retrospect. 
A mother with her child before us flew, 
I had the hideous mandate to pursue ; 
But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, 
I chased, o'ertook her in the winding glen, 
And show'd her pal[)itating, where to save 
Herself and infant in a secret cave ; 
Nor left them till I saw that they could mock 
Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock." 
" Heavens ! " Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, 
" That woman was my mother — I the child ! 
Of you unknown by name she late and air^ 
Spoke, wept, and ever bless'd you in her prayer, 
Ev'n to her death ; describing you withal 
A well-look'd florid youth, blue-eyed and tall." 
They rose, exchanged embrace : the old lion then 
Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den ; 

1 Scotch for late and early. 



THE riLGRI.-\L OF GLENCOE. 339 

Sajing, " Come and make thy home with us for 

life, 
Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife. 
I fear thou 'rt poor, that Hanoverian thing 
Rewards his soldiers ill." — "God save the king ! *' 
"With hand upon his heart old Allan said, 
" I wear his uniform, 1 eat his bread, 
And whilst I 've tooth to bite a cartridge, all 
For him and Britain's fame I '11 stand or fall." 
" Bravo ! " cried Ronald. " I commend your 

zeal," 
Quoth Norman, " and I see your heart is leal ; 
But I have pray'd my soul may never thrive 
If thou shoLild'st leave tliis house of ours alive. 
Nor shalt thou ; in this home ])rotract thy breath 
Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death." 



The following morn arose serene as glass, 
And red Bennevis shone like molten brass ; 
While sunrise open'd flowers with gentle force, 
The guest and Ronald walk'd in long discourse. 
" Words ftiil me," Allan said, " to thank aright 
Your father's kindness sliown me yesternight; 
Yet scarce I 'd wish my latest days to spend 
A fireside fixture with the dearest friend: 
Besides, I 've but a fortnight's fuilough now. 
To reach ]Macallin More,^ beyond Lochawe. 

1 The Duke of Arorvle. 



S40 THE riLGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

I 'd fain memorialize the powers that be, 

To deign remembrance of my wounds and me ; 

My life-long service never bore the brand 

Of sentence — lash — disgrace or reprimand. 

And so I 've written, though in meagre style, 

A long petition to his Grace Argyle ; 

I mean on reaching Innerara's shore, 

To leave it safe within his castle door." 

" Nay," Ronald said, " the letter that you bear 

Entrust it to no lying varlet's care ; 

But say a soldier of King George demands 

Access, to leave it in the Duke's own hands. 

But show me, first, the epistle to your chief, 

'Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief; 

Great men have no gi'eat patience when they read. 

And long petitions spoil the cause they plead." 

That day saw Ronald from the field full soon 
Return ; and when they all had dined at noon, 
He conn'd the old man's memorial — lopp'd its 

length. 
And gave it style, simplicity, and strength ; 
'Twas finish'd in an hour — and in the next 
Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text. 
At evening, he and Ronald shared once more 
A long and pleasant walk by Cona's shore. 
" I 'd press you," qnoth his host — (" I need not say 
How warmly) ever more with us to stay ; 
But Charles intends, 'tis said, in these same parta 
To try the fealty of our Highland hearts. 



THE PILGKI5I OF GLENCOE. .341 

*Ti.s my belief, that he and all liis line 

Have — saving to be liang'd — no right divine ; 

From whose mad enterprise can only flow 

To thousands slaughter, and to myriads >\oe. 

Yet have they stirr'd my fatlier's spirit sore, 

He flints his pistols — whets his old claymore — 

And longs as ardently to join the fray 

As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play. 

Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule. 

He 'd gore your-red coat like an angry bull : 

I told him, and he own'd it might be so. 

Your tempers never could in concert flow. 

But ' Mark,' he added, ' Ronald ! from our door 

Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor ; 

Let not your souls the niggardness evince 

Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince ; 

He gave you life — then feed him as you 'd feed 

Your very father were he cast in need.' 

He gave — you '11 find it by your bed to-night, 

A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright : 

You see I do you kindness not by stealth. 

My wife — no advocate of squandering "wealth— 

Vows that it would be parricide, or worse. 

Should we neglect you — here's a silken purse, 

Some golden pieces through the network shine, 

'Tis profFer'd to you from her heart and mine. 

But come ! no foolish delicacy, no ! 

We own, but cannot cancel what we owe — 

This sum shall duly reach you once a year." 

Poor Allan's furrow'd face and llowinor tear 



3-12 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Confer.' 'd sensations which he could not speal?. 
Old ]Sorman bade him farewell kindly meek. 

At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack 
With viands full the old soldier's haversack. 
He fear'd not hungry grass ^ with such a load, 
And Ronald saw him miles upon his road. 
A march of three days brought him to Lock 

fyne. 
Argyle, struck with his manly look benign, 
And feeling interest in the veteran's lot. 
Created him a sergeant on the spot — 
An invalid, to serve not — but with pay 
(A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day. 
" But have you heard not," said Macallin More, 
" Charles Stuart 's landed on Eriska's shore. 
And Jacobites are arming ? " — " What ! indeed ! 
Arrived ! then I 'm no more an invalid ; 
My new-got halbert I must straight employ 
In battle." — "As you please, old gallant boy : 
Your gray bairs well might plead excuse, 'tis 

true. 
But now 's the time we want such men as you.'* 
In brief, at Innerara Allan staid, 
And join'd the banners of Argyle's brigade. 
Meanwhile, the old choleric shepherd of Glencoe 
Spurn'd all advice, and girt himself to go. 

1 When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest 
with provisions, they tell him he will need them, as he haa 
to go over a great deal of hunfjnj (jrass. 



THE PILGllLU OF GLENCOE. 343 

"What was 't to him that foes would poind their 

fold, 
Tlicir lease, their very beds beneath them sold ! 
And firmly to his text he avouU have kept. 
Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. 
But 'midst the impotence of tears and prayer. 
Chance snatch'd them from proscription and de- 
spair. 
Old Norman's blood was headward wont to mounf 
Too rapid from his heart's impetuous fount ; 
And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, 
An artery in his wise sensorium bui*st. 
The lancet saved him : but how changed, alas. 
From him who fought at Killiecrankie's pass I 
Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, 
lie mutter'd incoherent words and smiled; 
He wept at kindness, rolFd a vacant eye, 
And laugh'd full often when he meant to cry. 
Poor man ! whilst in this lamentable state, 
Came Allan back one morning to his gate. 
Hale and unburden'd by the woes of eild. 
And fresh with credit from Culloden's field. 
'Twas fear'd at first, the siirht of him mi";ht touch 
The old Macdonald's morbid mind too much ; 
But no ! though Norman knew hira and disclosed 
Ev'n rallying memory, he was still composed ; 
Ask'd all particulars of the fatal fight. 
And only heaved a sigh for Charles's flight : 
Then said, with but one moment's pride of air, 
It might not have been so had I been there I 



344 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Few days elasped till lie reposed beneath 
His gray cairn, on the wild and lonely heath ; 
Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave, 
And Allan, with the crape bound round his 
sleeve. 

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant's sword, 
And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald's board. 
He waked no longer at the barrack's drum. 
Yet still you 'd see, when peep of day was come, 
Th' erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, 
Or delving with his spade the garden ground, 
Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, 
He reach'd, enjoy'd, a patriarchal age — 
Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near 
Their house, his stone was placed with many a 

tear ; 
And Ronald's self, in stoic virtue brave, 
Scorn'd not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave. 



THE HLGRIM OF GLENCOE. 315 



'The Pilgrim of Glencoe," dedicated, with other poems, 
to Dr. Beattie, was first published in the year 1842. Its 
reception by the public was far from cheering. No longer, 
as of old, lavish and enthusiastic praises were heard on all 
sides, or favoui'able critiques read on every hand, but a cold 
apathy seemed to reign, even amongst the re^^ewcrs, upon 
the subject. Campbell himself felt and admitted that the 
merits of the production were not of the first order; yet he 
was annoyed and grieved at the indifference manifested. 

The affair of Glencoe, and the f vets of the case concerning 
which so much, at different times, has been said and written, 
are referred to in Jlr. Campbell's own note, and are drawn 
into a narrow focus in an anonymous pamphlet entitled 'T/ie 
]\[assacre of Gltncoe : beinfj a true Ncn-rative of the bnrbaroiis 
Marther of the Glencoe-men, in the Ilitjhlands of Sfoilfind, by 
way of Military Execution, on the 13th Feb., 1692. London: 
1703." Though the brochure is by a concealed writer, yet it 
contains within itself strong evidence of authenticitv. It 
sets out at length the Commission, under the Great Seal of 
Scotland, for inaking inquiry into the murder; the proceed' 
ings of the Parliament of Scotland upon it; the report of tie 
commissioners upon the inquiry, as laid before the King and 
Parliament; together with the address of the Parliament to 
King William the Third for justice upon the murderers, all 
stated to be faithfully extracted from the records of Parliament^ 
and published for undeceicincj those who have been imposed upon 
by false accotints. F'rom the report of the Lord Chancellor 
(Marquis of Tweeddale) and his fellow-commissioners, after 
evidence taken, subscribed at Holyrood, 20th June, 1093, it 
appeared that the lairds of Glencoe and Auchintriatcn, and 
their followers, were out in the Highland rebellions of 1689 
and 1690; that in July, 1691, the Earl of Breadalbane met 
the heads of the clans, in order to a cessation; on which 
occasion Alexander Macdonald, of Glencoe, was present, ai.d 
vith others agreed to the cessation; that at that time there 



316 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

arose a quarrel between the Earl and ^lacdonald, concerning 
Bome cows which the Earl alleged were stolen from Iiis men 
by Glencoe's men; that the Earl threatened to do him a mis- 
chief. In the moi.th of August, 1691, the King's proclamation 
of indemnity and pardon was published to all the Highland- 
ers, upon condition that all who had been in arms should 
ttike the oath of allegiance, between that date and the 1st of 
January following. In comjiliance with the proclair.ation, 
Glencoc (otherwise Alexander Jlacdonald) went, towards the 
end of December, to Colonel Hill, the' governor of Fort Wil- 
liam, at Inverlochie, and desired the Colonel to administer to 
bim the oath of allegiance, that he might obtain the benefit 
of the indemnity. That officer, however, not being the 
proper party for the purpose, but bearing no malice, sent 
him with a letter to Ardkinlas, to receive him as a lost sheep; 
and the Colonel produced Ardkinlas's answer to that letter, 
of the date of January the 9th, 1091, to the elTect that he had 
endeavoured to receive the great lost sheep Glencoe, and tliat 
Glencoe had undertaken to bring in all his friends and follow- 
ers, as the Privy Council should order; that Glencoe, on 
obtaining the Culonel's letter to Ardkinlas, hasted to Inverary 
Avith all speed, notwitiistanding bad way and weatlier; that 
he presented liimself before Sir Colin Cami)bell, slierifl-depute 
of Argyle, about the beginning of January, 1692, and was there 
three da\'s before Ardkiidas could get thither, because of bad 
■weather; and that Glencoe said to him that he had not come 
sooner, because he was hindered b_v the storm ; thtit Ardkinhis 
declined to administer the oath of allegiance, because the last 
day of December, the time appointed for taking it, was past. 
Glencoe begged, with tears, that he might be admitted to take 
it, and promised to bring in all his people, within a short time, 
to do th". like; upon which the oath of allegiance was admi- 
nistered, and a certificate of the fact duly forwarded to Edin- 
burgh, and was produced before the Clerk of the Council, 
but rolled and scurtd, yet not so delete but that the certificate 
and its purport could be read. After Glencoe had taken the 
oath, he went home to his own house, and lived in his family 
some days quietly, and calling his people together, told them 
the course he had adopted, and desired them to live peaceably 



TIIE riLGUIM OF GLENCOE. 347 

under Kii.g Williarn's government. Six weeks nftcn\-ar<]s, 
Eix=core soldiers came to Glencoe, and showino; the orders 
of Colonel Hill, were billeted in the countr^% and had free 
entertainment and lived familiarly with the people until the 
13th of Februar}', on which day, about four in the mominjr, 
a party of the soldiers having called in a friendly manner 
and gained access into Glencoe's house, they shot him dead, 
and having killed another man, and wounded another, and 
stripped Glencoe's wife naked, and drami the rings off her 
finger with their teeth, they proceeded to other houses, killing 
and slaying young and old to the number of thirty-two, burn 
ing houses, barns, and goods, and carr>'ing away as spoil 
above a thousand head of cattle. Some days after the 
slaughter was over, there arrived a messenger from Earl 
Breadalbane's steward to the deceased Glencoe's sons, who 
had escaped, and offered, if they would declare under their 
hands that the Earl was clear of the slaughter, they might be 
assured of his kindness for procuring their remission and 
restitution. The proceedings above stated were sought to 
be defended on the ground of warrant from the King to 
march the troops against those rebels who had not taken the 
benefit of the Indemnification, and to destroy them by fire 
imd sword. But Secretarv Stair, who sent down the royal 
instructions to Sir Thomas Livingstone, wrote strongly against 
Glencoe, saying, " ^ly Lord Argylle tells me that Glencoe 
hath not taken the oath, at which I rejoice. I enlreat the 
Udtvinfj tribe of Glencoe may he rooted mit to purpose." The 
commission gave it as their opinion upon the whole mutter 
that it was a great wrong that Glencoe's case as to taking the 
oath of allegiance, the certificate thereupon. Colonel Hill's 
letter to Ardkinlas, and Ardkinlas's letter to Sir Colin Camp- 
bell, were not presented to the Privy Council when sent to 
Edinburgh, and that those who advised the not presenting 
thereof were in the Avrong, and seem to have had a malicious 
design against Glencoe: That the obliteration of the certifi- 
cate was wrong: That it was known in London, and particu- 
larly to the :\Iaster of Stair, in the month of January, 1692: 
That Glencoe had taken tlje oath of allegiance, though after 
the prescribed day: That there was nothing in the kiug's 



348 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

instructions to -warrant the committing of the slaughter: That 
the slaughter was a barbarous murder. This report was duly 
laid before the Parliament, and on the question being put to 
the House if the execution of the Glencoe men in February, 
1G92, in the manner represented, was a murder or not, it was 
carried in the ajjirmative. Other resolutions were subse- 
quently passed, and on the 10th of July an address upon the 
subject was voted to the King, Avhich contained, amongst 
other things, the following passage: — " We luambly beg that, 
considering that the blaster of Stair's excess, in his letters 
against the Glencoe men, has been the original cause of this 
unhappy business, and hath given occasion in a gi'eat measure 
to so extraordinary an execution by the warm directions he 
gives about doing it by surprise, and considering the high 
station and trust he is in, and that he is absent, we do there- 
fore beg that your Majesty will give such orders about him 
for vindication of ,your Government as you in j'our royal 
wisdom shall think fit. And, likewise, considering that tlie 
actors have barbarously killed men under trust, we humbly 
desire your J^Iajesty would be pleased to send the actors 
home, and to give orders to your advocate to prosecute them 
according to law." To this follows an appeal to the royal 
consideration on behalf of the Glencoe men who had escaped 
the slaughter, and were reduced to great distress by the de- 
predations committed upon them. 

It seems there never was any prosecution against any of 
the parties implicated in the transaction; on the contraiy, by 
the advice of some employed about the King, several of the 
parties were preferred, and the whole matter hushed up, and 
by tlie influence of some persons the report above quoted was 
suppressed in King William's time, though his Majesty's 
honour required that all the facts should be published. 



310 



NAJPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOIU 

T LOVE contemplating — apart 

From all his homicidal glory, 
The traits that soften to our heart 

Napoleon's story ! 

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne 
Arm'd in our island every freeman, 

His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They sufFer*d him — I know not how, 

Unprison'd on the shore to roam ; 
And aye was bent his longing brow 

On England's home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 

Of birds to Britain half-way over; 
"With envy they could reach the white, 

Dear cliffs of Dover. 

^ This anecdote has been published in several public joik. 
nals, botli French and British. My belief in its autbentichj 
^v'as confirmed by an Knglishman long resident at Boulogne, 
lately telling mc, tliut he remembered the circumstance to 
have been generally UUked of hi the place. 



350 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 

If but the storm his vessel bi'ought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banish'd sleep, 

He saw one morning — dreaming — doating, 

An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating ; 

He hid it in a cave, and wrought 

The live-long day laborious ; lurking 

Until he launch'd a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
Description wretched ; such a wherry 

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
Or cross'd a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder ; 

Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, 
No sail — no rudder. 

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff with wattled willows; 

And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd 
The foamino; billows — 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 351 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 

His little Argo sorely jeering : 
Till tidings of him chanced to reach 

Napoleon's hearing. 

With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
Serene alike in peace and danger ; 

And, in his wonted attitude, 
Address'd the stranger : — 

" Rash man, that would'st yon Channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd ; 

Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must he impassion'd." 

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 

" But — absent long from one another— 
Great was the longing that I had 

To see my mother." 

'* And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
" Ye Ve both my favour fairly won ; 

A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son." 

lie gave the tar a piece of gold, 

And, with a flag of truce, commanded 

He should be shipp'd to England Old, 
And safely landed. 



352 BENLOMOND. 

Our sailor oft could scantily shift 
To find a dinner, plain and hearty ; 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 



BENLOMOND. 

Had ST thou a genius on thy peak, 
What tales, Avhite-headed Ben, 

Could'st thou of ancient ages speak, 
That mock th' historian's pen ! 

Thy long duration makes our lives 

Seem but so many hours ; 
And likens, to the bees' frail hives, 

Our most stupendous towers. 

Temples and towers thou 'st seen begun. 
New creeds, new conquerors' sway ; 

And, like their shadows in the sun, 
Hast seen them swept away. 

Thv steadfast summit, heaven-allied 

(Unlike life's litile span), 
Looks down, a JNIentor on the pride 

Of perishable man. 



353 



THE CHILD A^B HIND. 

I WISH I had preserved a copy of the "Wiesbaden newspaper 
in which this anecdote of the " Child and Hind" is recorded; 
but I have unfortunately lost it. The stoiy, however, is a 
matter of fact; it took place in 1838: every circumstance 
mentioned in the following ballad literally happened. I was 
in Wiesbaden eight months ago, and was shown the very tree 
imder which the boy was found sleeping with a bunch of 
flowers in his little hand. A similar occurrence is told by tra- 
dition, of Queen Genevova's child being preserved by being 
suckled by a female deer, when that Princess — an early Chris- 
tian — and now a Saint in the Romish cnlendnr, was chased 
to the desert by her heathen enemies. The spot assigned to 
the traditionary event is not a hundred miles from Wiesbaden, 
where a chapel still stands to her memory. 

I could not ascertain whether the Hind that watched my 
hero " Wilhelm," suckled him or not; but it was generally 
believed that she had no milk to give him, and that the boy 
must have been for two days and a half entirely without food, 
unless it might be grass or leaves. If this was the case, the 
circumstance of the Wiesbaden deer watching the chUd, was 
a still more wonderful token of instinctive fondness than that 
of the deer in the Genevova tradition, who was naturally 
anxious to be relieved of her milk. 



Come, maids and matrons, to caress 
Wiesbaden's gentle hind ; 
And, smilling, deck its glossj neck 
"With forest flowers entwined. 

Your forest flowers are fair to show, 
And landscapes to enjoy ; 
23 



354 THE CHILD AND HIND. 

But fairer is your friendly doe 
That watch'd the sleeping boy. 

'Twas after church — on Ascension day— 
\ When organs ceased to sound, 

"Wiesbaden's people crowded gay 
The deer-park's pleasant ground. 

There, where Elysian meadows smile, 
And noble trees upshoot, 
The wild thyme and the camomile 
Smell sweetly at their root ; 

The aspen quivers nervously, 

The oak stands stilly bold — 

And climbing bindweed hangs on high 

His bells of beaten gold.^ 

Nor stops the eye till mountains shine 
That bound a spacious view, 
Beyond the lordly, lovely Rhine, 
In visionary blue. 

There, monuments of ages dark 
Awaken thoughts sublime; 
Till, swifter than the steaming bark, 
"We mount the stream of time. 

1 There is only one kind of bindweed that is yellow, and 
that is the flower here mentioned, the Paniculatus Convol 
Tulus. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 355 

The ivy there old castles shades 
That speak traditions high 
Of minstrels — tournaments — crusades, 
A.nd mail-clad chivahy. 

Here came a twelve years' married pair — 
And with them wander'd free 
Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair, 
A gladsome sight to see. 

Their TVilhelm, little innocent, 
The youngest of the seven, 
Was beautiful as painters paint 
The cherubim of Heaven, 

By turns he gave his hand, so dear. 
To parent, sister, brother ; 
And each, that he was safe and near, 
Confided in the other. 

But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright, 
With love beyond all measure ; 
And cull'd them with as keen delight 
As misers gather treasure. 

Unnoticed, he contrived to glide 
Adown a greenwood alley. 
By lilies lured — that grew beside 
A streamlet in the valley ; 



556 THE CHILD AND HIND. 

And tliere, where under beech and birch 
The rivulet meander'd, 
He stray'd, till neither shout nor search 
Could track where he had wander'd. 

Still louder, with increasing dread, 
They call'd his darling name ; 
But 'twas like speaking to the dead — 
An echo only came. 

Hours pass'd till evening's beetle roams, 
And blackbird's songs begin ; 
Then all went back to happy homes, 
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin. 

The night came on — all others slept 
Their cares away till morn ; 
But sleepless, all night watch'd and wept 
That family forlorn. 

Betimes the town-crier had been sent 
With loud bell, up and down ; 
And told th' afflicting accident 
Throughout Wiesbaden's town : 

The father, too, ere morning smiled. 
Had all his wealth uncoffer'd ; 
And to the wight would bring his child, 
A thousand crowns had offer'd. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 357 

Dear friends, who "svould have blush'd to take 
That guerdon from his hand, 
Soon join'd in groups — for pity's sake, 
The child-exploring band. 

The news reach'd Nassau's Duke : ere earth 

"Was gladden'd by the lark, 

He sent a hundred soldiers forth 

To ransack all his park. 

Their side-arms f^jlitter'd throu";h the wood, 
With bugle-horns to sound ; 
Would that on errand half so good 
The soldier oft were found ! 

But though they roused up beast and bird 
From many a nest and den. 
No signal of success was heard 
From all the hundred men. 

A second morning's light expands, 
Unfound the infant fair ; 
And Wilhelm's household wring their handp, 
Abandon'd to despair. 

But, haply, a poor artisan 
Search'd ceaselessly, till he 
Found safe asleep the little one 
Beneath a beechen tree. 



358 THE CHILD AND HIND. 

His hand still grasp'd a bunch of flowers ; 
And (true, though wondrous) neat*, 
To sentry his reposing hours^ 
There stood a female deer — 

"Who dipp'd her horns at all that pass'd^ 
The spot where Wilhelm lay ; 
Till force was had to hold her fast, 
And bear the boy away. 

Hail ! sacred love of childhood — hail ! 
How sweet it is to trace 
Thine instinct in Creation's scale, 
Ev'n 'ueath the human race. 

To this poor wanderer of the wild 
Speech, reason were unknown — 
And yet she watch'd a sleeping child 
As if it were her own ; 

And thou, Wiesbaden's artisan, 
Restorer of the boy, 
Was ever welcomed mortal man 
With such a burst of joy? 

The father's ecstasy — the mother's 
Hysteric bosom's swell ; 

1 The female deei has no such antlers as the male, and 
sometimes no horns at all ; but I have observed many with 
short ones suckling their fawns. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 359 

The sisterrf' sobs — the shout of brothers, 
I have not power to tell. 

The working man, with shoulders broad, 
Took blithely to his wife 
The thousand crowns ; a pleasant load, 
That made him rich for life. 

And Nassau's Duke the favourite took 
Into his deer-park's centre, 
To share a field with other pets 
"Where deer-slayer cannot enter. 

There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food, 
Each hand shall pat thee kind ; 
And man shall never spill thy blood — 
"Wiesbaden's gentle hind. 



360 



THE JILTED NYMPH. 

A SONG, 

TO THE SCOTCH TUNE OF " WOO'd AND MAKRIED 
AND A'." 

I *M jilted, forsaken, outwitted ; 

Yet think not I '11 whimper or brawl — 
The lass is alone to be pitied 

Who ne'er has been courted at all : 
Never by great or small, 
Woo'd or jilted at all ; 

Oh, how unhappy 's the lass 
Who has never been courted at all ! 

My brother call'd out the dear faithless, 

In fits I was ready to fall, 
i'ill I found a policeman who, scatheless. 

Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall ; 
iSeized them, seconds and all — 
Pistols, powder and ball ; 

I wish'd him to die my devoted, 
But not in a duel to sprawl. 

What though at my heart he has tilted, 
What though I have met with a fall ? 



THE JILTED NYMPn. 361 

Better be courted and jilted, 

Than never be courted at all. 
Woo'd and jilted and all, 
Still I will dance at the ball ; 

And waltz and quadrille 

With light heart and heel, 
With proper young men, and tall. 

But lately I 've met with a suitor, 
Whose heart I have gotten in thrall. 

And I hope soon to tell you in future 
That I 'm woo'd, and married and all : 

Woo'd and married and all, 

What greater bliss can befall ? 

And you all shall partake of my bridal cake, 

When I 'm woo'd and married, and alL 



362 



ON GETTING HOME 

THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE Cmi.D 

SIX YEARS OLD. 
PAINTED BY EUGENIC LATILLA. 

TrPE of the Cherubim above, 
Come, live with me, and be mj love ! 
Smile from mj -wall, dear roguish sprite, 
By sunshine and by candle-light ; 
For both look sweetly on thy traits : 
Or, were the Lady Moon to gaze. 
She 'd welcome thee with lustre bland, 
Like some young fay from Fairyland. 
Cast in simplicity's own mould. 
How canst thou be so manifold 
In sportively distracting charms ? 
Thy lips — thine eyes — thy little arms 
That wrapt thy shoulders and thy head, 
In homeliest shawl of netted thread, 
Brown woollen net-work ; yet it seeks 
Accordance with thy lovely cheeks, 
And more becomes thy beauty's bloom 
Than any shawl from Cashmere's loom. 



THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. 363 

Thou hast not, to adorn thee, girl, 
Flower, link of gold, or gem or pearl — 
I would not let a ruby speck 
The peeping whiteness of thy neck : 
Thou need'st no casket, witching elf, 
No gawd — thy toilet is thyself; 
Not ev'n a rose-bud from the bower, 
Thyself a magnet — gem and flower. 

My arch and playful little creature. 
Thou hast a mind in every feature ; 
Thy brow, with its disparted locks. 
Speaks language that translation mocks ; 
Thy lucid eyes so beam with soul, 
They on the canvas seem to roll — 
Instructing both my head and heart 
To idolize the painter's art. 
He marshals minds to Beauty's feast — 
He is Humanity's high priest 
"Who proves, by heavenly forms on earth, 
How much this world of ours is worth. 
Inspire me, child, with visions fair ! 
For children, in Creation, are 
The only things that could be given 
Back, and alive — unchanged — to Heaven. 



364 



THE PAEROT. 

A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. 

The following incident, so strongly illustrating the powei 
of memory and association in the lower animals, is not f 
Dction. I heard it many years ago in the Island of Mull, 
from the family to whom the bird belonged. 

The deep affections of the breast, 

That Heaven to living things imparts, 

Are not exclusively possess'd 
By human hearts. 

A parrot, from the Spanish Main, 

Full young, and early caged, came o'er 

"With bright wings, to the bleak domain 
Of Mulla's shore. 

To spicy groves where he had won 
His plumage of resplendent hue. 

His native fruits, and skies, and sun, 
He bade adieu. 

For these he changed the smoke of turf, 
A heathery land and misty sky. 

And tum'd on rocks and raging surf 
His golden eye. 



SONG OF THE COLONISTS. 365 

But, petted, in our climate cold 

He lived and chatter'd many a day : 

Until with age, from green and gold 
His wings grew gray. 

At last, when blind and seeming dumb, 
He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, 

A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
To Mulla's shore ; 

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, 
The bird in Spanish speech replied, 

Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech, 
Dropt down, and died. 



SONG OF THE COLONISTS DEPARTING 
FOR NEW ZEALAND. 

Steer, helmsman, till you steer our way. 

By stars beyond the line ; 
We go to found a realm, one day, 

Like England's self to shine. 

CHORUS. 

Cheer up — cheer up — our course we '11 keep, 
With dauntless heart and hand ; 

And when we 've plough'd the stormy deep, 
We '11 plough a smiling land : — 



36)6 SONG OF THE COLONISTS. 

A land, where beauties importune 

The Briton to its bowers, 
To sow but plenteous seeds, and prune 

Luxuriant fruits and flowers. 

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c. 

There, tracts uncheer'd by human words, 

Seclusion's wildest holds. 
Shall hear the lowing of our herds, 

And tinkling of our folds. 

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c. 

Like rubies set in gold, shall blush 

Our vineyards girt with corn ; 
And wine, and oil, and gladness gush 

From Amalthea's horn. 

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c. 

Britannia's pride is in our hearts, 

Her blood is in our veins — 
We '11 girdle earth with British arts, 

Like Ariel's magic chains. 

CHORUS. 

Cheer up — cheer up — our course we '11 keep, 
With dauntless heart and hand ; 

And when we 've plough'd the stormy deep, 
We '11 plough a smiling land. 



;g7 



MOONLIGHT. 

The kiss that would make a maid's cheek flush 
Wroth, .as if kissing were a sin 
Amidst the Argus eyes and din 
And tell-tale glare of noon, 
Brings but a murmur and a blush, 
Beneath the modest moon. 

Ye days, gone — never to come back, 
When love return'd entranced me so, 
That still its pictures move and glow 
In the dark chamber of my heart ; 
Leave not my memory's future track — 
I will not let you part. 

*Twas moonlight, when my earliest love 
First on my bosom dropt her head ; 
A moment then concentrated 
The bliss of years, as if the spheres 
Their course had faster driven, 
And carried, Enoch-like above, 
A li-^ing man to Heaven. 



368 MOONLIGHT. 

'Tis by the rolling moon we measure 
The date between our nuptial night 
And that blest hour which brin^js to light 
The pledge of faith — the fruit of bliss ; 
When we impress upon the treasure 
A father's earliest kiss. 

The Moon 's the Earth's enamour'd bride ; 
True to him in her very changes, 
To other stars she never ranges: 
Though, cross'd by him, sometimes she dipi 
Her light, in short offended pride, 
And faints to an eclipse. 

The fairies revel by her sheen ; 
*Tis only when the Moon 's above 
The fire-fly kindles into love. 
And flashes light to show it : 
The nightingale salutes her Queen 
Of Heaven, her heav'nly poet. 

Then ye that love — by moonlight gloom 
Meet at my grave, and plight regard. 
Oh ! could I be the Orphean bard 
Of whom it is reported, 
That nightingales sung o'er his tomb, 
Whilst lovers came and courted. 



3G9 



SONG ON OUR QUEEN. 

BET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ. 

Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep 

Has touch'd, and broken slavery's chain ; 

Yet, strange magician ! she enslaves 
Our hearts within her own domain. 

Her spirit is devout, and burns 
With thoughts averse to bigotry ; 

Yet she herself, the idol, turns 
Our thoughts into idolatry. 



24 



370 



CORA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF THE 
CLYDE. 

WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837. 

The time I saw thee, Cora, last, 
'Twas with congenial friends ; 
And calmer hours of pleasure past — 
My memory seldom sends. 

It was as sweet an Autumn day 
As ever shone on Clyde, 
And Lanark's orchards all the way 
Put forth their golden pride ; 

Ev'n hedges, busk'd in bravery, 
Look'd rich that sutiny morn ; 
The scarlet hip and blackberry 
So prank'd Septembers thorn. 

In Cora's glen the calm how deep ! 
That trees on loftiest hill 
Like statues stood, or things asleep. 
All motionless and stilh 



CORA LINN. 371 

The torrent spoke, as if his noise 
Bade earth be quiet round, 
And give his loud and lonely voice 
A more commanding sound. 

His foam, beneath the yellow light 
Of noon, came down like one 
Continuous sheet of jaspers bright, 
Broad rolling by the sun. 

Dear Linn ! let loftier falling floods 
Have prouder names than thine ; 
And king of all, enthroned in woods. 
Let Niagara shine. 

Barbarian, let him shake his coasts 
With reeking thunders far, 
Extended like th' array of hosts 
Li broad, embattled war ! 

His voice appalls the wilderness : 
Approaching thine, we feel 
A solemn, deep melodiousness, 
That needs no louder peal. 

More fury would but disenchant 
Thy dream-inspiring din ; 
Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt, 
Romantic Cera Linn. 



k 



372 



CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. 

Long slialt thou flourish, Windsor ! bodying forth 
Chivab'ic times, and long shall live around 
Thy Castle — the old oaks of British birth, 
Whose gnarled roots, tenacious and profound, 
As with a lion's talons grasp the ground. 
But should thy towers in ivied ruin rot, 
There 's one, thine inmate once, whose strain 

renown'd 
Would interdict thy name to be forgot ; 
For Chaucer loved thy bowers and trode this 

very spot. 
Chaucer ! our Helicon's first fountain-stream, 
Our morning star of song — that led the way 
To welcome the long-after coming beam 
Of Spenser's light and Shakspeare's perfect day. 
Old England's fathers live in Chaucer's lay. 
As if they ne'er had died. He group'd and drew 
Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay. 
That still they live and breathe in Fancy's view. 
Fresh beings fraught with truth's imperishable 

hue. 



373 



LINES 

SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF ARNOLD VON 
WLNKELRIEDjl STANZ-UNDERWALDEN. 

Inspiring and romantic Switzers' land, 
Though mark'd with majesty by Nature's hand, 
What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face ? 
Th' heroic memory of thy native race — 
Who forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee. 
And made their rocks the ramparts of the free ; 
Their fastnesses roll'd back th' invading tide 
Of conquest, and their mountains taught them 

pride. 
Hence they have patriot names — in fancy's eye. 
Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky ; 
Patriots who make the pageantries of kings 
Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things. 
Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust. 
Imperishable, for their cause was just. 

Heroes of old ! to whom the Nine have strung 
Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung ; 

1 For an account of this patriotic Swiss and his heroic 
death at the battle of Sempach, see Dr. Beattie's " Switzer- 
land Illustrated," vol. ii. pp. 111-115. 



374 TO THE UNITED STATES. 

Heroes of cliivaliy ! whose banners grace 
The aisles of many a consecrated place, 
Confess how few of you can match in fame 
The martyr Winkelried's immortal name ! 



TO THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH 
AMERICA. 

United States, your banin r wears 
Two emblems — one of fame ; 

Alas, the other that it bears 
Reminds us of your shame. 

Your standard's constellation types 

White freedom by its stars ; 
But what 's the meaning of the stripes ? 

Tliey mean your negroes' scars. 



375 



LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. 

I noLD it a religious duty 
To love and worship children's beauty ; 
Thej 've least the taint of earthly clod, 
They 're freshest from the hand of God ; 
With heavenly looks they make us sure 
The heaven that made them must be pure. 
We love them not in earthly fashion, 
But w^ith a beatific passion. 
I chanced to, yesterday, behold 
A maiden child of beauty's mould ; 
'Twas near, more sacred was the scene, 
The palace of our patriot Queen. 
The little charmer to my view 
W^as sculpture brought to life anew. 
Her eyes had a poetic glow, 
Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow : 
And through her frock I could descry 
Iler neck and shoulders' symmetry. 
'Twas obvious from her walk and gait 
Her limbs were beautifully straight ; 
I stopp'd th' enchantress, and was told, 
Tliough tall, she was but four years old. 



376 LINES. 

Iler guide so grave an aspect wore 
I could not ask a question more ; 
But follow'd her. The little one 
Threw backward ever and anon 
Her lovely neck, as if to say, 
** I know you love me, Mister Grey ;* 
For by its instinct childhood's eye 
Is shrewd in physiognomy ; 
They will distinguish fawning art 
From sterling fondness of the heart. 

And so she flirted, like a true 
Good woman, till we bade adieu. 
*Twas then I with regret grew wild, 
Oh, beauteous, interesting child! 
Why ask'd I not thy home and name ? 
My courage fail'd me — more *s the shame. 
But where abides this jewel rare ? 
Oh, ye that own her, tell me where ! 
For sad it makes my heart and sore 
To think I ne'er may meet her more. 



377 



THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. 

WBITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE. 

England hails thee with emotion, 

Mightiest child of naval art, 
Heaven resounds thy welcome ! Ocean 

Takes thee smiling to his heart. 

Giant oaks of bold expansion 
O'er seven hundred acres fell. 

All to build thy noble mansion. 

Where our hearts of oak shall dwell. 

'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, 
Asres lon<y ere we were born, 

And our great-grandfathers sounded 
Many a jovial hunting-horn. 

Oaks that living did inherit 

Grandeur from our earth and sky, 

Still robust, the native spirit 
In your timbers shall not die. 



378 TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Ship to shine in martial storj, 

Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path 

Freighted with Britannia's glory 
And the thunders of her wrath. 

Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee, 
Threat'ning havoc to their deck, 

"When afar they first descry thee, 
Like the coming whirlwind's speck. 

Gallant bark ! thy pomp and beauty 
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast, 

Whilst our tars in pride and duty 
Kail thy colours to the mast. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO ASKED ME TO "WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAI 
FOR HER ALBUM. 

An original something, fair maid, you would win 

me 
To write — ^but how shall I begin ? 
For I fear I have nothing original in me — 
Excepting Original Sin. 



379 



EPISTLE, FHOM ALGIERS, 

TO 

HORACE SMITH. 

Dear Horace ! be melted to tears, 
For I 'in melting with heat as I rhyme ; 

Though the name of the place is All-jeers, 
'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime. 

With a shaver^ from France who came o*er, 

To an African inn I ascend ; 
I am cast on a barbarous shore, 

Where a barber alone is my friend. 

Do you ask me the sights and the news 

Of this wonderful city to sing ? 
Alas ! my hotel has its mews, 

But no muse of the Helicon's spring. 

i On board the vcppcI from JIarseilles to Ali^iers I inot -with 
a fellow passenger whom I supposed to be a physician from 
his dress and manners, and the attentions which he paid me 
to alleviate the sulVerings of my sea-sickness. He turried 
out to be a perruqiiier and barber in Algeria — but his voca- 
tion did not lower him in my estimation — for he continued 
his attentions until he passed my baggage through the cus- 
toms, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion, to the 
best hotel. 



380 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 

My windows afford me the sight 

Of a people all diverse in hue ; 
They are black, yellow, olive, and white, 

Whilst I in my sorrow look blue. 

Here are groups for the painter to take, 
Whose figures jocosely combine, — 

The Arab disguised in his haik,^ 

And the Frenchman disguised in his wine. 

In his breeches of petticoat size 

You may say, as the Mussulman goes, 

That his garb is a fair compromise 

'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes. 

The Mooresses, shrouded in white. 

Save two holes for their eyes to give room, 

Seem like corpses in sport or in spite 

That have slyly whipp'd out of their tomb. 

The old Jewish dames make me sick : 

If I were the devil — I declare 
Such hags should not mount a broom-stick 

In my service to ride through the air. 

But hipp'd and undined as I am, 

My hippogriff's course I must rein — 

For the pain of ray thirst is no sham, 

Though I 'm bawling aloud for champagne. 

1 A mantle worn by the natives. 



EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 381 

Dinner's brought; but their wines have no pith— 
They are flat as the statutes at law ; 

And for all that they bring me, dear Smith ! 
Would a glass of brown stout they could draw ! 

O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, 

My heart feels a patriot's grief ! 
And the round tears, O England ! descend 

When I think on a round of thy beef. 

Yes, my soul sentimentally craves 
British beer. — Hail, Britannia, hail ! 

To thy flag on the foam of the waves, 
And the foam on thy flagons of ale. 

Yet I own, in this hour of my drought, 
A dessert has most welcomely come ; 

Here are peaches that melt in the mouth, 
And grapes blue and big as a plum. 

There are melons too, luscious and great, 

But the slices I eat shall be few, 
For from melons incautiously eat 

Melancholic effects may ensue. 

Horrid pun ! you '11 exclaim ; but be calm, 
Though my letter bears date, as you view. 

From the land of the date-bearing palm, 
I will palm nc> more puns upon you. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO, 

FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. 

Havtxq met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, 
at Algiers, several years ago, I commenced this intended 
Oratorio at his desire, but he left the place before I proceeded 
farther in the poem ; and it has been thus left unfinished. 

Crush'd by misfortune's yoke, 
Job lamentably spoke — 

" My boundless curse be on 
The day that I was born ; 
Quench'd be the star that shone 
Upon my natal morn. 
In the grave I long 
To shroud my breast ; 
Where the wicked cease to wrong, 
And the weary are at rest." 
Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair : 

" What Heaven ordains, 'tis meet that man 
should bear. 
Lately, at midnight drear, 
A vision shook my bones with fear ; 
A spirit pass'd before my face, 
And yet its form I could not trace ; 



FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 383 

It stopp'd — ^it stood — it chill'd my blood. 

The hair upon my flesh uprose 

With freezing dread ! 

Deep silence reign'd, and, at its close, 

I heard a voice that said — 

* Shall mortal man be more pure and just 

Than God, who made him from the dust ? 

Hast thou not learnt of old, how fleet 

Is the triumph of the hypocrite ; 

How soon the wreath of joy grows wan 

On the brow of the ungodly man ? 

By the fire of his conscience he perisheth 

In an unblown flame : 

The Earth demands his death. 

And the Heavens reveal his shame.' " 

JOB. 

Is this your consolation ? 

Is it thus that ye condole 

With the depth of my desolation, 

And the anguish of my soul ? 

But I will not cease to wail 

The bitterness of my bale. — 

Man that is born of woman, 

Short and evil is his hour; 

He fleeth like a shadow. 

He fadeth like a flower. 

My days are pass'd — my hope and trust 

Is but to moulder in the dust. 



884 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 

CHORUS. 

Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God, 

Nor murmur at his chastening rod ; 

Fragile being of earthly clay, 

Think on God's eternal sway ! 

Hark ! from the whirlwind forth 

Thy Maker speaks — " Thou child of earth, 

AVhere wert thou when I laid 

Creation's corner-stone ? 

When the sons of God rejoicing made, 

And the morning stars together sang and shone ? 

Hadst thou power to bid above 

Heaven's constellations glow ; 

Or shape the forms that live and move 

On Nature's face below ? 

Hast thou given the horse his strength and pride ? 

He paws the valley, with nostril wide. 

He smells far off the battle ; 

He neighs at the trumpet's sound — 

And his speed devours the ground. 

As he sweeps to where the quivers rattle, 

And the spear and shield shine bright, 

'Midst the shouting of the captains 

And the thunder of the fight. 



S3j 



TO MY NIECE, MARY C.UlPliELL. 

[The following lines were written in Mrs. Alfred liill's 
album, in the early part of 1842, about twelve mouths after 
her arrival in London from Scotland, and Ihcy exhibit the 
gentle and affectionate feelings which ever mai-ked Camp- 
bell's intercourse with those he loved.] 

Our friendship 's not a stream to dry, 

Or stop with angry jar ; 
A life-long planet in our sky — 

No meteor-shooting star. 

Thy playfulness and pleasant ways 

Shall cheer my wintry track, 
And give my old declining days 

A second summer back ! 

Proud honesty protects our lot, 

No dun infests our bowers ; 
Wealth's golden lamps illumine not 

Brows more content than ours. 

To think, too, thy remembrance fond 

May love me after death. 
Gives fancied happiness beyond 

My lease of living breath. 
. 25^ 



386 TO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL. 

Meanwhile thine intellects presage 

A life-time rich in truth, 
And make me feel th' advance of age 

Retarded bj thy youth ! 

Good night ! propitious dreams beti<*i 

Thy sleep — awaken gay, 
And we will make to-morrow glidftj 

As cheerful as to-day I 



APPENDIX. 



THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. 

When Scotland's great Regent, our -vrarrior mos* dear* 

The debt of his nature did pay, 
'Twas Edward, the cruel, had reason to fear, 

And cause to be struck with dismay. 

At the window of Edward the rav^i^ ^^id cro?>k, 

Though Scotland a widow became ; 
Each tie of true honor to AVallacc he broke — 

The raven croaked " Sorrow and shame ! '* 

At Elderslie Castle no raven was hoard, 

But the soothings of lionor and truth ; 
His spirit inspired the soul of tlie bard 

To comfort the Love of his youth I 

They lighted the tapers at dead of night, 

And chanted their holiest hymn ; 
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, 

Her eye was all sleei)less and dim ! 

And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, 

AVhen a death-watch beat in her lonely room, 
When her curtain had shook of its own accord, 
And the raven had Ihipped at her window board. 
To tell of her warrior's doom. 

Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray 
For the soul of my knight so dear 1 



388 APPENDIX. 

And call me a widow, this wretched day, 
Since the warning of God is here. 

For a nightmare rests on my strangled sleep; 

The lord of my bosom is doomed to die ! 
His valorous heart they have wounded deep, 
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep 

For AVallace of Elderslie. 

Yet knew not his country, that ominous hour, 

Ere the loud matin-bell Avas run<x, 
That the trumpet of death, on an English tower, 

Had the dirge of her champion sung. 

When his dunn;eon-lijrht looked dim and red 
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, 
No anthem was sung at his lowly death-bed — 
No weeping was there when his bosom bled. 
And his heart was rent in twain. 

When he strode o'er the tcreck of each well-fought field^ 

With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ; 
For his lance teas not shivered on helmet or shield^ 
And the sword that was fit for archangel to wield 
Was light in his terrible hand. 

Yet, bleeding and bound, though " the Wallace-wight" 

For his long-loved country die, 
The buole ne'er suno; to a braver knight 

Than William of Elderslie I 

But the day of his triumphs shall never depart ; 

His head, unentombed, shall with glory be palmed ; 
From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start ; 
Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, 

A nobler was never embalmed ! 



^89 



NOTES. 



THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Page 6, line 25. 

And suck ihy streHrjIh-inspiving aid (hat bore 
The hardy Bynm to his native shore — 

TilE following picture of his own distress, given by Byroji 
h. liio snnple and interesting narrative, justifies the description 
in page 5. 

After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his 
child, he proceeds thus: — "A day or two after we put to sea 
again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at 
the bottom of when we first liauled away to the westwnrd. 
The land here was very low and sandy, and something like 
the montli of a river which discharged itseU' into tlie se;i, and 
which had been taken no notice of by us belbre, as it wiis so 
shallow that tlie Indians were obliged to take every thing out 
of their canoes, and carry them over land. We rowed u\> the 
river lour or five leagues, anil then took into a brunch of it tliiit 
ran first to the eastward, and then to the northw.-ird; here it 
became nn|cli narrower, ami the stream excessively rapid, so 
that we gained but little way, though we wrought very nard. 
At night we landed upon its banks, ami had a most un:cm- 
tbrtable lodging, it being a perfect swamj), and we had no- 
thing to cover u>, though it rained excessively. The Indians 
wei'e little better ofi" than we, as there was no wood here to 
make their wigwams; so that all they could do was to ])rop 
up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, 
and shelter them-elves as well as they could to the leeward 
of it. K'nowing the diJliculties they had to encoimter here, 
they had provided themselves with some seal ; but we luul 
not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, ex- 
cepting a sort of ri)ot we saw the Inilians make us<^ cf, which 
was very disagreeable to the ta'^te. We laboured all next 
day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day 
before. The next day brought us to the carrying-place. 
Here was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got lor suste- 
nauce. We passed this night, as we had frequently done, 



390 NOTE^. 

under a tree ; but what we suffered at this time is not easy 
to be expressed. I had been three days at the oar without 
any kind of iiourislnuent except tlie wretched root above 
mentioned. I liad no shirt, for it had rotted olf by bits. All 
my clotlies consisted of a short grielvo (something lil^e a bear- 
skin), a piece of red cloth which had once been a waistcoat, 
and a ragged paur of trowsers, without shoes or stockings." 

Page 7, line 14. 
a Briton and afnendl 



Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spa 
nish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched 
associates, of which the commodore speaks in the warmest 
terms of gratitude. 

Page 7, line 30. 

Or yield tiie lyre of Heaven another string. 

The seven strings of Apollo's harp were the symbolical repre 
sentation of the seven planets. Herschel, by discovering an 
eighth, might be said to add another string to the instrument. 

Page 8, line 1. 

The Stjoedish-sage. 
Linnasus. 

Page 8, line 26. 

Deep from his vaults the Loxlan murmurs floio, 

Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek 
writers: it is met with more than once in the Choephoras of 
vEschylus. 

Page 10, line 1. ' 

Unlocks a oenerous stoi'e nt thy command^ 
Like Iloreh's rocks btneath ilitjJrojjhtCs hand. 

See Exodus, chap. xvii. 3, 5, 6. 

Page 15, line 19. 

Wild Obi flies— 

Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Orbiah, is 
the name of a magical jiower, whicii is believed by them to 
alTect the object of its malignity with dismal calamities. Such 
a belief nnist undoubtedly have been deduced from the super- 
stitious mythology of their kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I 
have, therefore, personified Obi as the evil spirit of the Afri- 
can, although the history of the African triljes mentions the 
evil spirit of their i-eligious creed by a dillereut a])pellutiou. 



N.OTKS. 391 

Pag-e 15, line 24. 
—Siliir''s dreary mines. 



'Mr. Bell of Antcnnon y, in his Travels tlu-ough Sibtiria, ia- 
foiTns us that the name of the country is universally pro- 
nounced Sibir by the Kussians. 

Pago IG, line 10. 

Presaffinff wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

The history of tlie partition of Poland, of the massacre in 
the suburbs of Warsaw, and on tlie bridge of Prague, the tri- 
umphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the 
insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks 
offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fight- 
ing in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppress- 
ors, are events generally known. 

Page 22, line 9. 

The shrill horn blew ; 

The negroes in the West Indies are summoned to tlieir morn- 
ing work by a shell or horn. 

Page 22, line 30. 
IIoio lorn/ was Ti)iwur''s iron sceptre sway'd, 

To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from 
■ the preface to Letters from a Hindoo Pajah, a work of ele- 
gance and celebrity. 

" The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the prin- 
ciples of his doctrine, the merit of extending it either by per- 
suasion, or the sword, to all parts of the earth. Howsteadilv 
this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with 
Avhat success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in 
the least conversant in history. 

" Tlie same overwhelming torrent Avliich had inundated tlio 
greater part of Africa, burst its way into the very heart of 
Kiirope; ami, covering many kingdoms of Asia with unbound- 
ed desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing 
provinces of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adver.- 
turers, whose only improvement had been in the science of 
destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to tlie ravages 
of war, foinid the great end of their conquest op|)osed by 
objects which neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, 
nor savage barbarity, could surmount. Multitudes were sa- 
crificed by the cruel hand of religious [)ersecution, and whole 
countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope, that by the 



392 NOTES. 

destruction of !i part the remainfler might be persuaded, or 
terrified, into the i>rofes.sion of ]\Iahomeilism. But sill these 
sanguinary eflbrts were ineffectual; and at length, being fully 
convint-ed that, though they might extirpate, they could never 
liope to convert, any number of the Hindoos, they reliticiuished 
the impracticable idea with which they had entered upon their 
career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acnuir- 
ment of the civil dominion ami ahnostuniver-^al empire of Hiu- 
dostan.*' — Letters J'rom a Uiiuluo Rajah, by Eliza Hamilton. 

Page 23, line 15. 

And braved Vie stormy Spir-it of the Cape ; 

See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, transh\ted 
from Camoexs, by Micklk. 

Page 23, line 30. 
Willie famish'' d nations died along the shore : 

The following account of British conduct, and its conse- 
quences, in Bengal, will afford a sufficient idea of the fact 
alluded to in this passage. 

After describing the monopoly of salt, betel-imt, and tobac- 
co, the historian proceeds thus : — " Money in this current came 
but by drops; it could not quench the thirst of those who 
waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, 
remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with 
little salt, but could not want food. Some of the agents saw 
themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores; 
they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die than 
violate the principles of their religion by eating fiesh. Tiie 
alternative would theref<jre be between giving what they had, 
or dying. The inhabitants sunk; — they that cultivated the 
land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in 
doubt — scarcity ensued. Then the monopoly was easier ma- 
nageil — sickness ensued. In some districts the languid living 
left the itodies of tiieir numerous dead unburied." — Sln^rt Jlis- 
tvry of tilt J-Jiylish Traiisatliuns in the Last Jndits, p. 145. 

Page 24, line 15. 

Nine times have Bramn's wheels of liyhtning hurVd 
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ; 

Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it i» 
one article of belief, that the Deity Brama has descended ninf 
times upon the world in various forms, and that he is yet t( 
apj)ear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a whitr 
horse, to cut olf all incorrigible otl'enders. Avatar is th< 
word used to ex[iross his descent. 



NOTES. 393 

Page 25, line 8. 

Shall S€)'isinitlte tcace hir halluw'd loand ! 
And Caindto brhjht^ and Gcmesa sublime, 

Camdeo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hin- 
doos. (Janesa and Seriswattee cuiTcspond to the pagan deities 
Jauus and Minerva. 

Page 31, line 2. 

The noon of manhood to a myrile shade ! 

Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade. — Drydex. 

Page 34, line 7. 

Thy woes, Avion! 

Falconer, in his poem, " The Shipwreck," speaks of himself 
by the name of Arion. 
See Falconer's " Shipwreck," Canto III. 

Page 34, line 22. 
The robber Moo}\ 
See Schiller's tragedy of the " Robbers," Scene v. 

Page 35, line 11. 

What millions- died — that Gesar might be great ! 

The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Ccesar has 
been usually estimated at two millions of men. 

Page 35, line 12. 

Ov learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, 
MardCd by their Charles to JJneiper's swampy shore ; 

*' In this extremity," (says the biographer of Charles XII., 
of Sweden, speaking of liis military exi)loits before the battle 
of I'ultowa,) "the memorable winter of 1709, whicii was still 
more remarkable in that part of Kurope than in France, de- 
stroyed numbers of his troops; for Charles resolved to brave 
the seasons as he liail done his enemies. an<l ventured tn make 
long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one of these 
marches tliat two thousand men loll down dead with cold b&- 
loie his eyes." 

Page 36, line 7. 
For, as Zona's saint. 

The natives of the island of lona have an opinion, that on 
certain evenings eyery year the tutelary saint (Jolumba \n 



394- NOTES. 

«ecii .■)n the top of the church spires counting the siiiTound- 
ng islands, to see that they have not been sunk b}' the power 
■)f v/itchcraft. 

Page 36, hne 26. 
And part ^ like Ajut — never to return ! 
See the history of Ajut and Anningait, m '* The Kambler.*' 



THEODRIC. 

Page 51, hne 3. 
That gave the fjlacier tvjjs their richest glow, 

The sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has 
often disappointed travellers who had perused the accounts of 
their splendour and sublimity given by Bourrit and other de- 
scribei"s of Swiss scenery. Possibly Boiu'rit, who had spent 
his life in an enanioiu'ed f;imiliarity with the beauties of Na- 
ture in Switzerland, may have leaned to the romantic side of 
description. One can pardon a man for a sort of idolatry of 
those imposing objects of Nature which heighten our ideas of 
the Dounty of Nature or Providence, when we reflect that the 
glaciers — those seas of ice — are not only sublime, but usei"ul. 
they are the inexhaustible reservoirs which supply tlie prin- 
cipal rivers of Europe; and their annvuil melting is in pro- 
portion to the sunnner heat which dries up those rivers and 
makes them need that su])ply. 

That the jjicturesque grandeur of the glaciers should some- 
times disapp'oint the traveller, will not seem surprising to any 
one who has been nuich in a moiuitainous country, and recol- 
lects that the beaxity of Nature in such, countries is not only 
variable, but capriciously dependent on the weather and sun- 
shine. There are about ibur luuidred different glaciers,* 
according to the conii)Utation of M. Bourrit, between Mont 
Blanc and the frontiers of the Tyrol. The full ell'ect of the 
m<jst lot'ty and picturesque of them can, of course, only be 
produced by the richest and v/armest lights of the atmosphere; 
and tiie wavy heat which illuminates them must have a chang- 
ing influence on many of their af)pearances. I imagine it is 
owing to this circumstance, namely, the casualty and change- 
nbleness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the 
impressions made by them on the minds of other and more 
transient travellers have been less cnchai.^ing than those de- 

* Occupying, if taken together, a surface of 130 square 
leagues. 



nott:s. 395 

scribed by M. BourriL On one nccr.'ion ^f. Rf.urrit ?ren)3 
even to speak of a pnst phenomenon, and certainly one wJiicfa 
no other spectator atte t> in tlie s;!ine terms when lie says, 
that there once existe<l between the Kaiulel vSteig and Lauter- 
brun," a pasage amidst singnlar glaciers, s-onietimes resem- 
bling magical to-wns of ice, with pilasters, i^yramids, colmnns, 
and obelisks retlecting to tiie Sim the most brilliant hues of 
tlie finest gems." — M. Bourrit's rlescription of the (Jlacier of 
the Rhone is quite enchanting: — " To form an idea," he says, 
" of this sujjcrb spectacle, figure in your mind a scallblding 
of transparent ice, filling a space of two miles, rising to the 
clouds, and darting flaslies of light like the sun. Nor were tlie 
several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see 
as it were, the streets and buildings of a city, erected in the 
form of an amphitheatre, and embellished witli pieces of water, 
cascades and torrents. The efiects were as prodigious as the 
immensity and the height; — the most beautiful azure — the 
most splendid white — the regular 'appearance of a thousand 
pyramids of ice, are more easy to be imagined than describ- 
ed." — Buurrit, iii. 163. 

Page 51, line 10. 

From lieifjhts browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; 

Laborde, in his " Tableau dela Suisse," gives a curious ac- 
count of this animal, the wild sharp cry and elastic move- 
ments of which must heighten the picturesque appearance 
of its haunts. — '' Nature," says Laborde '* has destined it to 
mountains covered with snow: if it is not exj)Osed to keen 
cold, it becomes blind. Its agility in leaping much sur|)asses 
that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who 
have not seen it. There is not a mountain so high or steep to 
which it Avill not trust itself, provided it has room to place its 
feet; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its surface be 
rugged." 

Page 51, line 17. 

enamdVd moss. 

The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, ig 
remarkable for a bright smoothness, approaching to the ap- 
pearance of enamel. 

Page 56, line 4. 

How dear seem'd tv'n the waste and lolld Shreclhorn, 

The Shreckhorn means, in German, the Peak of Terror. 

Page 56, line 9. 
liUndfoU his native hills he cuulil have known! 
I have here availed myself of a striking expression of the 



396 NOTES. 

Emperor Napoleon respecting his recollections of Corsica^ 
which is recorded in Las Casas's History of the Emperor's 
Abode at St. Helena. 



O'Connor's child. 

Page 83, line 1. 
Innisfailf the ancient name of Ireland. 

Page 84, line 7. 

Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this 
sense the word is used by Shakspeare. Gainsford, in his 
Glories of England, says, "They (the Irish) are desperate in 
revenge, and their kerue think" no man dead until his head 
be off:' 

Page 84, line 26. 

Shieling, a rude cabin or hut. 

Page 85, line 4. 

In Brings yellow vesture clad, 

Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the 
ancient Irish. Wiien the Irish chieftains came to make terms 
■\\itli Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir 
John Davis, that they came to court in sairron-coloured uni- 
forms. 

Page 85, line 18. 

Moral, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with 
honey. 

Page 86, line 21. 

Their tribe, they said, their high degree, 
Was sung in Tarcis psaUtry; 

The pride of the Irish in ancestrj' was so great, that one of 
the O'Neals being told that Barret of Castlemone hnd been 
there only 400 years, he replied — that he hated the clown as 
if lie had come there but yesterday. 

Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the 
petty princes of Ireland. Very sf)Iendid and fabulous de- 
scriptions are given by tlie Irish' historians of the pomp and 
luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the 
grand national register of Ireland. The grand epoch of 
political eminence iu the early history of the Irish is the 



NOTES. 397 

reign of their great and favourite monnrch, Ollam Fodlah, 
who reigned, according to Keating, about 950 years before 
the Christian aira. Under luni \vi\> instituted the great Fes 
at Tara, whicli it is pretended was a triennial convention of 
the states, or a parliament; the nienibers of which were the 
Druids, and other le;n-ned men, who represented the people 
in tlint assembly. Very minute accounts are given liy h-isli 
annalists of the mngnificence and onler of these entertain- 
ments; from which, if credil)le, we might collect the earliest 
traces of heraldry that occur in history. To preserve order 
and regularity in the gre;it number and variety of the mem- 
bers who met on such occasions, the Irish historians inform 
us that, when the banquet was ready to be served up, the 
shield-bearers of the princes, and other members of the con- 
vention, delivereil in their shiehls and targets, which were 
readily distinguished by the coats of arms emblazone<l upon 
them/ These were arriuiged by the grand marshal and pria 
cipal herald, and hung ujion tlie walls on the rigiit side of th.e 
table; and, upon entering the apartments, each member took 
his seat under his resi)ective shield or target, without the 
shghtest disturbance. The concluding days of the meeting, 
it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were spent in very free 
excess of conviviality: but the first six, they Siiy were de- 
voted to the examination and settlement of the annals of the 
kingdom. These were publicly rehearsed. When they had 
passed the approbation of the assembly, they were transcribed 
into the authentic chronicles of the nation, which was called 
the Kegister, or Psalter, of Tara. 

Col. Vallancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, 
found in Trinitj'-college, Dublin, in which the palace of the 
above assembly is thus described, as it existed in the reign 
of Cormac: — 

"In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine 
hundred teet square; the diameter of the surrounding rath, 
seven dice or casts of a dart ; it contained" one hundretl and 
fifty apartments ; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleep- 
ing-rooms for guards, and sixty men in each; the height was 
twenty-seven cubits; there were one hundred and fifty com- 
mon drinking horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests 
daily, besides princes, orators, and men of science, engravei-s 
of gold and silver, carvers, modellers, and nobles." The Irish 
description of the banqueting-hall is thus translated: " Twelve 
stalls or divisions in each wing; sixteen attendants on each 
Bide^ and two to each table ; one hundred guests in all." 

Page 87, line 4. 

And siemni'd De Bourgd's chivalry f 

The house of O'Connor had a right to boast of their victo- 
ries over the English. It was a chief of the O'Couuoi race 



398 NOTES. 



"who gave a cTieck to the English champion De Courcy, so 
famous for his personal strength, and f n- cleaving a helmet 
at one blow of his swonl, in the pre^^ence of tiie knigs of 
France and England, when the French champion declined 
the combat wirli him. Tlioutih ultimately conquered by the 
English under De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also hunibled 
tlie pride of that name on a memorable occasion: viz., when 
Walter De Bourgo, an aiicestor of that De Boiu'go who won 
the battle of Athunree, had become so insolent as to make 
excessive demands u])on the territories of Connaught, and to 
bid defiance to all the rights and properties reserved by the 
Irish chiefs. Eath O'Connor, a near descendant of the famous 
Catlial, surnamed of the Bloody hand, rose r.gainst the usurper, 
and defeated the English so severely, that their general died 
of chagrin after the battle. 

Page 87, line 7. 

Or becd-Jires for your jubilee 

The month of May is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, 
t. e., the month of Beal's fire, in the original language of Ire- 
land, and hence, I believe, the name of the Beltan festival in 
the Highlands. These fires were lighted on the summits of 
mountains (the Irish antiquaries say) in honour of the sun; 
and are supjiosed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove 
the origin of the Irish from some nation who worshipped Baal 
or Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of Cnoc 
Greine, i. e., the Hill of the Sun; and on all are to be seen 
the ruins of druidical altars. 

Page 88, line 2. 

And play my clavshech by iliy side. 

The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument 
of the Hibei-nian bards, does not appear to be of Irish origin, 
nor indigenous to any of the British islands. — The Britons 
undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence 
of the Romans in their country, as in all their coins, on which 
musical instruments are represented, we see only the Roman 
lyre, and not the British teylin, or harp. 

Page 88, line 9. 

And smo at daicn the lofty bawn 

Bawn, from the Teutonic Bawen — to construct and secure 
•with bi-anches of trees, was so called because the primitive 
Celtic fortifications were made b}' digging u ditch, throwing 
up a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which were 
interlaced with boughs of trees. This word is used by Speu- 



NOTES. 399 

eei ; but it is inaccurately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, 
lui eminence. 

Page 91, line 13. 

To speak the malison of heaven. 

If the wrath -which I have apcribed to the heroine of this 
little piece should seem to exhibit lier character as too un- 
naturally stripped of patriotic and domestic adcctioii;*, I must 
beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the represent- 
ation of a similar passion: I allude to the denunciation of 
Caniille, in the tragedy of" Horace." When Horace, accom- 
panied by a soldier bearing the three swords of the Ouriatii, 
nieet.-> his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his 
victory, she expresses only her grief, which he attributes at 
first only to her feelings fur the loss of her two brothers; but 
when she bursts forth into reproaches against him as the 
murderer of her lover, the last of the Cuiiatii, he exclaims: 

" ciel I qui vit jamais une pareille rage ! 
Crois-tu done que je sois insensible a Toutrage, 
Que je soutfre en mon sang ce mortel deshonneur? 
A'l~ie, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur; 
Et prefere du moins au souvenir d'lm lionnne 
Ce que doit ta naissance aux int«jrets de liome." 

At the mention of Eome, Camille breaks out into tbia 
apostrophe : 

" Rome, I'unique objet de mon ressentiment ! 
Rome, a qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant! 
Rome qui t'a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore! 
Rome enfin que je hais parce qu'elle t'honore! 
Puissent tons ses voisins ensemble conjures 
Saper ses fondements encor mal assures; 
Et si ce n'est assez de toute Tltalie, 
Que r Orient centre elle a T Occident s'allie; 
Que cent peuples unis des bouts de I'univers 
Rassent pour la detruire et les monts et les mers; 
Qu'elle meme sur soi renverse ses raurailles, 
Et de ses propres mains dechire ses entraillesi 
Que le coun'oux du ciel allum(5 par mes voeux 
Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux! 
Puisst'-je de mes yeux y voir tondjer ce foudre. 
Voir ses maisons en cendre et tes lauriers en poudre, 
Voir le dernier Roniain a son dernier soupir, 
Moi seule en etre cause, et mourir de plaisirl" 

Page 91, line 18. 
And (JO to Athunree! (I critd) 
In the reign of Edward the Secrnd, the Irish presented to 



400 NOTES. 

Pope John the Twenty-second a memoripJ of their suiferings 
under the English, oi" which the hinouage exhibits all the 
strength of despair. "Ever since the English (sjiy they) first 
appeared upon our co-ists, they entered our territories under 
a certain specious pretence of charity, and external hypo- 
critical show of religion, endeavouring at the same time, by 
every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root and 
Vrancli, and witiiout any otiier right than tliat of the strong- 
est; they have so far succeedetl by base fraudr.leiice, and 
cuinjing, tiiat they have forced us to quit our tair and ample 
liabitations and inheritances, and to tal<e refuge like wild 
beasts in the mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the 
C!;untry; — nor even can the caverns and dens protect us 
again.st tlieir insatiable avance. They pursue us even into 
tliese frightful abodes; endeavouring to dispossess us of the 
wild uncultivated rocks, and arrogate to themselves the 
im;oi'ektv ok evkuy place on which we can stamp the 
ligure of our feet." 

The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain 
tludr native independence, was n)ade at tlie time when they 
called over the brother of Robert Bruce from Scotland. Wil- 
liam de Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Kichard de 
r>enningham, were sent against the main body of the native 
insurgents, who were headed rather than commanded by 
Feliui O'Connor. Tiie important battle which deciiied the 
subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of August. 1315. 
It was the bloodiest that ever was fought between tiie two 
nations, and continued througliout the whole day, from tiie 
rising to the setting sun. Tlie Irish fought with inferior dis- 
cipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand 
men, among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. 
Tradition states that, after this terrible day, the O'Connor 
family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exterminated, that 
throughout all Connaught not one of the name remained, 
except Fellni's brother, who was capable of bearing arms. 



LOCHIEL S WARNING. 



Paore 94. 



LociiiEL, the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, 
and descended from ancestors distinguished in their narrow 
si)here for great persoiml prowess, was a man worthy of a 
better cause and fate than that in which he embarked, the 
enter{)rise of the Stuarts in 1745. His memory is still fondly 
cherished among the Highlanders, by the appellation of the 



NOTES. 401 

" gentle Lnchiel: " for he was famed for his social virtnes as 
niurh as his mnrtiiil and magnauimous (though mistaken) 
loyalty. His influence was so important among the Highland 
chiefs, that it depended on his joining witli his clan whether 
the standard of Charles should be raised or not in 1745 
Lochiel was himself too wise a mnn to be blind to the conse 
quences of so hopeless an enterprise, but his sensibility to the 
point of honour overruled his wisdom. Charles appealed 
to his loyalty, and he could not brook the reproaches of his 
Prince. When Charles landed at Borrodab, Lochiel went 
to w^'^, mm, but on his way called at his brother's house 
'Cameron of Fassafern), and told him on what errand he was 
going; adding, however, that he meant to dissuade the Prince 
from his enterprise. Fassafern advised him in that case to 
communicate his mind by letter to Chai-les. " No," said 
Lochiel, " 1 think it due to my Prince to give him my rea- 
sons in person for refusing to join his standard." — " Brother," 
replied Fassafern, " I know you better than you know your- 
self: if the Prince once sets eyes on you, he will make you 
do what he pleases." The interview accordingly took i)lace; 
and Lochiel, with many argumenti^, but in vain, jiros'^ed Ihe 
I'retender to return to France, and reserve himself and his 
friends for a more favourable occasion, as he had come, by 
his own acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or ad- 
herents: or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends 
should meet and deliberate what was best to be done. Charles, 
whose mind was wound up to the utmost impatience, paid no 
regard to this proposal, but answered, " that he was detennincd 
to put all to the hazard." " In a few days," said he, " 1 will 
erect the I'oyal standard, and proclaim to the people of Great 
Britain, that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the crown 
of his ancestors, and to win it or perish in the attempt. Lo- 
chiel, who my ftither has often told me was ourfirmest friend, 
may stay at home and learn from the newspapei-s the fate of 
his'Prin'ce." — "No," said Lochiel, "I will share the fate of 
my Prince, and so shall every man over whom nature or 
fortune hath given me any power." 

The other chieftains who followed Charles embraced his 
cause with no better hopes. It engages our sympathy most 
strongly in their behalf, that no motive, but their fear to be 
reproached with cowardice or disloyalty, impelled them to 
the hopeless adventure. Of this we have an example in the 
intervicAv of Prince Charles with Clanronald, another lead 
ing chieftain in the rebel army. 

" Charles," says Home, " almost reduced to despair, in his 
discourse with Boisdale, addressed the two Highlanders with 
great emotion, and, summing up his arguments for taking arms, 
conjured them to assist their Prince, their countrjinan, in his 
utmost need, Clanronald and his friend, though well inclin- 
ed to the cause, positively refused, and told him that to take 

26 



402 NOTES. 

up arms without concert or f^upport was to pull down certain 
n;in on their own heads. Charles persisted, argued, and im- 
plored. During this conversation (they were on shipboard) 
the parties Ava!ke<l backwards and forwards on the deck; a 
Highlander stood near them, armed at all points, as Avas then 
the fashion of his country. He was a younger brother of Kin- 
loch Moidart, and had come oti' to the ship to inquire for news, 
not knowing who was aboard. When he gatliered, from 
their discoiu'se, that the stranger was the Prince of Wales; 
when he heard his chief and his brother refuse to take arms 
with their Prince, his colour went and came, his eyes spark- 
led, he shifted his place, and grasped his sword. Charles 
observed his demeanour, and turning briskly to him called 
out, 'Will you assist me?' — 'I will, I v.-ili,' said Eonald: 
though no other man in the Highlands should draw a sword, 
I am ready to die for you!' Charles, with a profusion of 
thanks to his champioh, said, he wished all the Highlanders 
were like him. Without furtlier deliberation, tlie two Mac- 
donalds declared that they would also join, and use their ut- 
most endeavours to engage their countrymen to take arms." 
— Home's Hist. Rebellion, p. 40. 

Page 94, line 17. 

Weep, Alhhi ! 

The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the 
Highlands. 

Page 96, line 22. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven trilh the rials of wrath, 
Behokl, lohere he flies on his desolate path ! 

The lines allude to the many hardships of the royal sufferer. 

An account of the second sight, in Irish called Taish, is thus 
given in ^hlrtin's Description of the Western Isles of Scotland. 

*' The second sight is a singular faculty of seeing an other- 
wise invisible object, without any previous lueans used by 
the person who sees it for that end. The vision makes such 
a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor 
think of any thing else except the vision as long as it ccn- 
tiimes; and then they appear pensive or jovial according to 
the object which was represented to them. 

"At the sight of a vision the eyelids of the person are erected 
and the eyes continue staring until the object vanishes. This 
is obvious to others who are standing by when the persons 
liappen to see a vision; and occurred more than once to my 
own observation, and to others that were with me. 

" There is one in Skie, of whom his acquaintance observed, 
that when he sees a vision the inner part of his eyelids turns 
so far upwards, that, after the object disappears, he must draw 



NOTES. 403 

them down with his finger?, and sometimes employ others to 
draw them down, which lie finds to be much the easier way. 

"This faculty of the second sight does not Tneally descend 
in a family, as some have imagined; for I know several [tarents 
who are endowed with it, and their children are nor; and 
vice versa. Neither is it acquired by any previous compact. 
And after strict inquir}^ I could never learn from any among 
them, that this faculty*^was communicable to any whatsoever. 
The seer knows neither the object, time, nor place of a vi.-iou 
before it appears: and the same object is often seen by diller- 
ent persons living at a considerable distance from one another. 
The true way of judging as to the time and circumstances is 
by observation ; for several persons of judgment who are with- 
out this faculty are more capable to judge of the design of a 
vision than a novice that is a seer. If an object appear in 
the day or night, it will come to pass sooner or later accord- 
ingly. 

"If an object is seen early in a morning, which is not fre- 
quent, it will be accomplished in a few hours afterwards ; if 
at noon, it will probably be accomplished that very day ; if 
in the evening, perhaps that night ; if after candles be light- 
ed, it will be accomplished that night ; the latter always an 
accomplishment by weeks, months, and sometimes years, 
according to the time of the night the vision is seen. 

" When a shroud is seen about one, it is a sure prognostic 
of death. The time is judged according to the height of it 
about the person ; for if it is not seen above the middle, tleath 
is not to be expected for the space of a year, and perhaps 
some months longer : and as it is frequently seen to ascend 
higher towards the head, death is concluded to be at hand 
within a few days, if not hours, as daily experience confirms. 
Examples of this kind were shown me, when the person 
of whom the observations were tiien made was in perfect 
health. 

" It is ordinary with them to see houses, gardens, and trees 
in places void of all these, and this in process of time is wont 
to be accomplished : as at Mogslot, in the Isle of Skie, -where 
there were but a few sori-y low houses, thatched Avith straw ; 
yet in a few years the vi: ion, which appeared often, was a(;- 
complished by the building of several good houses in the 
ver}' spot represected to the seers, and by the planting of 
orchards there. 

" To see a spark of fire is a forerunner of a dead child, to 
be seen in the arms of those persons ; of which there aro 
several instances. To see a seat empty at the time of sitting 
in it, is»a presage of that person's death quickly after it. 

" When a novice, or one that has lately obtained the second 
sight, sees a vision in the night-time without doors, and 
comes near a fire, he presently falls into a swoon. 

" Some find themselves as' it were in a crowd of peopla 



404 NOTES. 



having a corpse, which they carry along with them ; and 
after such visions the seers come in sweating, and de- 
scribe the vision tliat appeared. If there be any of tlieir 
acquaintance among tliem, tliey give an account of their 
names, as also of tlie bearers ; Ijut they know uotliing con- 
cerning the corpse." 

Horses and cows (according to the same credulous autlior) 
nave certainly sometimes the sanie faculty ; and he endea- 
vo'.u's to prove it by the signs of fear which the animals ex- 
hibit, when second-sighted persons see visions in the same 
place. 

" The seers (he continues) are generally illiterate and weh- 
meaning people, and altogether void of design : nor could I 
ever learn that any of them ever made the least gain by it ; 
neither is it reputable among them to have that faculty. 
Besides, the people of the Isles are not so credulous as to 
believe implicitly before the thing predicted is accomplished ; 
but when it is actually accomplished afterwards, it is not in 
their power to deny it, without otlering violence to their own 
sense and reason. Besides, if the seers were deceivers, can it 
be reasonable to imagine that all the islanders who have not 
the second sight siiould combine togetlier, and offer violence 
to their understandings and senses, to enforce themselves to 
believe a lie from age to age V There are several persons 
among them whose title and education raise them above the 
suspicion of concurring with an impostor merely to gratify 
an illiterate contemptible set of persons ; nor can reasonable 
persons believe that children, horses, and cows, sliould be 
preengaged in a combination in favour of the second sight." 
Martin's JJescri/Aion of the Wtstern Isles of Scotland^ p. 3. 11. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Page 142, line 6. 
From merry mock bird's song, 



The mocking-bird is of the form of, but larger than, the 
thrush ; and the colours are a mixture of black, white, and 
gray. What is said of the nightingale by its greatest ad- 
mirers is what may with more propriety apply to this bird, 
who, in a natural state, sings with very superior taste.. To- 
wards evening I have heard one begin softly, reserving its 
breath to swell certain notes, which, by this means, had a 
most astonishing effect. A gentleman in London had one of 
these birds for six .years. During the space of a minute 



NOTES. 405 

de was heard to imitate the -woodlark, chaffinch, blackbird, 
thrush, and span-ow. In this country (America) I have fre- 
quently known the inocl'Cin<r-birds so en<rnge(l in this mimicry, 
that it was with much difficulty I could ever obtain an op- 
portunity of hearing tlieir own natural note. Some go so far 
a< to say, that they have neitlier peculiar notes, nor favourite 
imitations. This may be denied. Their few natiu-al notes 
re-emble those of the (European) nightingale. Tlieir song, 
however, has a greater com|)ass and volume than the night- 
ingale's, and tliey have the faculty of varying all intermediate 
notes in a manner which is truly delightful. — Ashe's Travtls 
in America, vol. ii. p. 73. 

Page 143. line 5. 

And distant isles that hear the loitd Corbrechtan roar ! 

The Corj'brechtan, or Corbrechtan, is a whirlpool on the 
western coast of Scotland, near the islafid of Jura, which is 
heard at a prodigious distance. Its name signifies the whirl- 
pool of the I'rince of Denmark ; and there is a tradition that 
a Danish prince once undertook, lor a wager, to cast anchor 
in it. He is said to have used woollen instead of hempen 
ropes, lor greater strength, but peri.-hed in the attempt. On 
the shores of Argyleshire, I have often listened with great 
delight to the scnind of this vortex, at the distance of many 
leagues. When the weather is calm, and the adjacent soa 
scarcely heard on these pictiu-esque shores, its sound, which 
is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent 
and fine eflect. 

Page 146, line 4. 

Of huskirVd limb, and svoartliy lineament ; 

In the Indian tribes there is a great similarit}' in their 
colour, stature, &c. They are all, except the Snake Indians, 
tall in stature, straight, and robust. It is verv seldom they 
are defomied, which has given I'ise to the supposition that 
they put to death their deformed children. Their skin is of 
a copp<!r colour ; their eyes large, bright, black, and s[)ark- 
ling, indicative of a subtle and discerning mind : their hair is 
of tlie same colour, and prone to be long, seldom or never 
curled. Their teeth are large and white ; I never observed 
any decayed among them, which makes their breath as 
sweet as the air they inhale. — Travels thruuijh America b^ 
Captains Lewis and Clarke, in 1804-5-6. 

Page 146, line 16. 
^'•'Peace be to thee! my tcords this belt approve; 
The Indians of North America accompany every formal ad 



406 NOTES. 

dress to strangers, with whom tliey form or recognize a treaty 
of amity, witli a present of a string, or belt, of wampum. 
Wampum (savs Cadwalhider Colden) is made of tlie large 
whelk shell, buccinum, and shaped like long beads : it is the 
current money of the Indians. — ilisturt/ of' the Five Indian Na- 
tions, p. 34. Neio York tdiliun. 

Page 146, line 17. 

Thepjihs of' peace my steps have hither led: 

In relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the 
Governor of New York, Colden quotes the following passage 
as a specimen of tiieir metaphorical manner : " Where shall 
1 seek the chair of peace V Where shall I find it but upon 
our path V and whither doth our path lead us but unto this 
house V " 

Page 146, line 22. 

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace : 

When they solicit tlic alliance, oflTeusive or defensive, of a 
whole nation, tliey send an embassy with a large belt of 
wampum and a bloody hatcliet, inviting ''■f'm to come and 
drink the blood of their enemies. The \\ ;i'.n,jum nnide use of 
on these and otiier occasions, before their acipiaintance with 
the Europeans, was nothing but small shells which they pick- 
ed up by tlie sea-coasts, and on the banks of the lakes ; and 
now it is noth ng but a kind of cylindrical beads, made of 
shells, white and black, which are esteemed among them as 
silver and gold are among us. The black they call the most 
valuable, and both together are their greatest riches and 
ornaments ; these amorig them answering all tlie end that 
money does amongst us. They have the art of stringing, 
twisting, and interweaving them into their belts, collars, 
hlaidvcts, and mncasins, &c., in ten thousand different sizes, 
forms, and figures, so as to be ornaments for every part of 
dress, and expressive to them of all their important trans 
actions. They dye the wampimi of various colours and 
shades, and mix and dispose them with great ingenuity and 
order, and so as to be significant among tliemselves of almost 
every thing they please ; so that by these their words are 
kept, and their thoughts communicated to one another, as 
ours are by writing. The belts that pass from one nation tc 
another in ail treaties, declarations, und important transac- 
tions, are very carefully preserved in the cabins of their 
chiefs, and serve not only as a kind of record or history, but 
as a public treasure. — Major Rogers's Account of North 
America. 



NOTES. 407 



Page 147, line"iO. 
As iclien the evil Manitou 

It is certain the Indians aclinowledga one Supreme Bcinfr, 
or Giver of Life, wlio presides over all things ; that is, the 
Great Spirit, and tliey look up to him as the source of good, 
from wlience no evil can proceed. They also believe in a 
bad Spirit, to whom they ascribe great power ; and suppose 
that tiirough his power all the evils which befall mankind 
are inflicted. To him, therefore, they pray iu their distresses, 
begging that he would eitlier avert their troubles, or mo- 
derate them when they are no longer avoidable. 

Tliey hold also that tliere are good Spirits of a lower degree, 
Avho have their particuhir dc])artments, in which they are 
constantly contributing to the liappiness of mortals. These 
they suppose, to preside over all the extraordinary produc- 
tions of Nature, such as those lakes, rivers, and mountains 
that are of an uncommon magnitude ; and likewise the 
beasts, birds, fishes, and even vegetables or stones, that ex- 
ceetl the rest of their species iu size or singularity. — Clarkt's 
Trnctb anwny (he Indians. 

Tlie Supreme Spirit of Good is called by the Indians, 
Kitctii JManitou ; and the Spirit of Evil, Matchi Manitou. 

Page 148, line 12. 

Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : 

Tlie fever-balm is a medicine used by these tribes ; it is a 
decoction of a bush called the Fever Tree. Sagamitd is a 
kind of soup administered to their sick. 

Page 148, line 21. 

And 7, the eagle of my tribe, have ruslCd 
With this lorn dove. 

The testimony of all travellers among the American Indi- 
ans who mention their hieroglyphics, authorizes m.e in putting 
this figurative language in tiie mouth of Outalissi. The dove 
is among them, as elsewhere, an emblem of meekness ; and 
the eagle, that of a bold, noble, and liberal mind. When the 
Indians speak of a warrior who soars above the multitude in 
person and endowments, they say, "he is like the eagle, who 
destroys his enemies, and gives protection and abundance to 
the weak of his own tribe." 

Page 149, last line. 
Far differentlij, the mute Oneyda took, tJ'C. 
They are extremely circumspect and deliberate in every 



408 NOTES. 

v.-nrrl and action ; nothing hurries them into any intemperate 
wrath, but that inveteracy to their enemies which is rooted 
in every Indian's breast. In all other instances they are cool 
luid deliberate, taking care to suppress the emotions of the 
heart. If an Indian lias discovered that a friend of his is in 
danger of being cut off by a lurldng enemy, he does not tell 
him of his danger in direct terms as thougli he were in fear, 
but he first coolly asks him which way he is going that day, 
;ind having his a'nswer, with the same indifference tells him 
tliat he has been informed thrvt a noxious beast lies on the 
ivmte he is going. Tliis hint proves sufficient, and his friend 
avoids the danger with as much caution as though every 
design and motion of his enemy had been pointed out to him. 

If an Indian has been engaged for several days in the chase, 
and Ijy accident continued long without food, when he arrives 
at tlie hut of a friend, where he knows that his wants will be 
inmiediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least 
sj-mptoms of impatience, or betray the extreme hunger that 
he is tortured Muth; but on being invited in, sits contentedly 
down, and smokes his pipe with as much composure as if his 
appetite was cloyed and he was perfectly at ease. He does 
the same if among strangers. This custom is strictly adhered 
to by every tribe, as they esteem it a proof of fortitude, and 
think the reverse would entitle them to the appellation of old 
women. 

If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signal- 
ized "themselves against an enemy, have taken many scalps, 
and brought home many prisoners, he does not appear to feel 
any strong emotions of pleasure on the occasion; his answer 
generally is, — " They have done well," and he makes but 
very little inquiry about the matter; on the contrary, if you 
inform him that his children are slain or taken prisoners, he 
makes no complaints; he only replies, "It is unfortunate : " 
and for some time asks no questions about how it happened. 
Lewis and Clarke,'' s Travels. 

Page 150, line 1. 

His calumet of peace, ^-c. 

Nor is the calumet of less importance or less revered than 
the wampum in many transactions relative both to peace and 
war. The bowl of this pipe is made of a kind of soft red 
stone, which is easily wrought and hollowed out; the stem is 
of cane, alder, or some kind of light wood, painted with ditfer- 
snt colours, and decorated with the heads, tails, and feathers 
of the most beautiful birds. The use of the calumet is to 
smoke either tobacco or some bark, leaf, or herb, which they 
often use instead of it, when they enter into an alliance on 
any serious occasion, or solemn engagements; this being 
among them the most sacred oath that can be taken, the vio- 



NOTES. 409 

latioji of which is esteemed most inf\amons, and deserving of 
severe punishment from Heaven. When they treat of wivr, 
the whole pipe and u!l its ornaments are red: sometimes it is 
red only on one side, and by the dispo-irion of the feathers, 
&c. one acquainted with their customs will know at first 
siglit what tlie nation who presents it intends or desires. 
Smoking the calumet is also a religious ceremony on some 
occasion-;, and in all treaties is considered as a v»itness be- 
tween the parties, or rather as an instrument by which they 
invoke the sun and moon to witness their sincerity, and to be 
as it were a guaranty of the treaty between them. This 
custom of the Indians, though to appearance somewhat ridi- 
culous, is not witliout its reasons ; for as they find that smoking 
tends to disperse the vapours of the brain, to raise the spirits, 
and to qualify them for thinking and judging properly, they 
introduce it into their councils, Avhere, after their resolves, 
the pipe was considered as a seal of their decrees, and as a 
pledge of tlieir performance thereof, it was sent to tho-e they 
were consulting, in alliance or treaty with; — .s,o that snioking 
among them at the same pipe, is equivalent to our drinking 
together and out of the same cup. Majoi' Ror/ers's Account 
of North America^ 1766. 

The lighted calumet is also used among them for a purpose 
still rcore interesting than the expression of social friendsliip. 
The austere manners of the Indians forbid any appearance 
of gallantry between the sexes in the daytime; but at night 
the young lover goes a-calumeting, as his courtship is called. 
As these people live in a state of equality, and without fear 
of internal violence or theft in their own tribes, they leave 
their doors open by night as well as by day. The lover takes 
advantage of this liberty, lights his calumet, enters the cabin 
of his misti'ess, and gently presents it to her. If she extin- 
guish it, she admits his addresses ; but if she sutler it to burn 
uni'.oticed, he retires with a disappointed and throbbing heart 
Ashe's Travels. 

Page 150, line 4. 

Train' d from his tree-rocTc'd cradle to his bier 

An Indian child, as soon -as he is born, is swathed with 
clothes, or skins ; and being laid on his back, is bound down 
on a piece of thick board, spread over with soft moss. The 
board is somewhat larger and broader than the child, and bent 
pieces of wood, like pieces of hoops, are placed over its face 
to protect it, so that if the machine were suffered to fall, the 
child probably would not be injured. When the women have 
any business to transact at home, they hang the boards on a 
tree, if there be one at hand, and set them a-swinging fron» 
side to side, like a pendulum, in order to exercise the childrcu. 
Weld, vol. ii., p. 246. 



410 NOTES. 



Page 150, line 5. 

The ferce extreme of (jood and ill to hrooh 
Imjmssice 

Of the active as well as passive fortitude of the Indian 
character, the following is an instance related by Adair, in 
his Travels: — 

A party of the Senel\ah Indians came to war against the 
Katahba, bitter enemies to each other. In the Avoods the 
former di-^covered a sprightly warrior belonging to tiie latter, 
hunting in their usual light dress: on his perceiving them, 
he sprang ofl' for a hollow rock four or five miles distant, as 
they intercepted him fmm raiming homeward. lie was so 
extremely swift and skilful with tlie giui, as to kill seven of 
them in the running fight before they w.ere able to surround 
and take him. They carried him to their country in sad tri- 
umph; but thougli he had tilled tliem with uncommon grief 
anil siiame for the loss of so many of their kindred, yet the 
love of m;u-ti!vl virtue induced them to treat him, during 
tlieir long Journey, with a great deal more civility than if 
lie had acted the part of a coward. The women and child- 
ren, when they met him at their several towns, be:it him 
and whipped liim in as severe a manner as the occasion re- 
quired, according to their law of justice, and at last he was 
formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. It niight 
rcasoiuibly be imagined that what he had for some time gone 
through, by being fed with a scanty hand, a tedious march, 
lying at night on the bare ground, exposed, to the changes of 
the weather, Avith his arms and legs extended in a pair of 
rough stocks, and suffering such punishment on his entering 
into their hostile towns, as a prelude to those sharp torments 
for which he was destined, would have so impaired his health 
nnd afiected his imagination, as to have sent him to his long 
sleep, out of the way of any more sutferings. Probably this 
would have been the case with the major part of the white 
peo])le under similar circumstances; but I never knew this 
with any of the Indians; and this cool-headed, brave warrior 
did not deviate lYom their rough lessons of martial virtue, 
but acted his part so well as to surprise and sorely vex his 
numerous enemies: — for when they were taking him, un 
pinioned, in their wild parade, to tiie place of torture, which 
lay near to a river, he suddenly dashed down those who stood 
in his way, sprang otf, and plunged into the water, swimming 
underneath like an otter, only rising to take breath, till he 
reached the opposite shore. He now ascended the steep bank, 
but though he had good reason to be in a hurry, as many of 
the enemy were in the w^ater, and others running, very like 
bloodhounds, in pursuit of him, and the bullets flying around 
him from the time he took to the river, yet his heart did not 



NOTES. 411 

allow him to leave them abniptly, without takino: leave in a 
formal manner, in return for the extraordinary favours tliey 
had done, and intended to do him. After .slapping a ])art of 
his body in detiance to them (continues the autlior), Jie put 
up the shrill war-whoop, as his last salute, till some uiorc 
convenient opportunity offered, and darted oft" in the manner 
of a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. He con- 
tinued his speed so as to run by about midnight of the same 
day as far as his eager pursuers were two davs in reaching. 
There he rested till he ha})pily discovered five of those Indians 
who l.ad pursued him: — he lay hid a little way olf their camp, 
till they were sound asleep. Every circumstance of his situ- 
ation occuiTed to him, and inspired him with heroism. He 
was naked, tom, antl hungry, and his enraged enemies were 
come up with him; — but there was now every thing to reheve 
his wants, and a fair opportunity to save his life, and get 
great honour and sweet revenge, by cutting them oft". Keso- 
lution, a convenient spot, and sudden surprise, would cftect 
the main object of all his wishes and hopes. He accordingly 
crept, took one of their tomahawks, and killed them all on 
the spot, — clothed himself, took a choice gun, and as nuich 
ammunition and provisicnis as he could well carry in a run- 
ning march. He set oft" afresh with a light heart, and did 
not sleep for several successive nigiits, only when he reclined, 
as usual, a little before day, with his back to a tree. As it 
were b\- instinct, when he tbund he was free from the pursu- 
ing enemy, he made directly to the very place where he had 
killed seven of his enemies, and was taken by them for the 
fiery torture. He digged them up, burnt their bodies to 
aslie.'^, and went home in safety with singular triumpli. 
Other pursuing enemies came, on the evening of the second 
day, to the camp of their dead people, when the sight gave 
them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In 
their chilled war-council they concluded, that as he had done 
such surprising things in his defence before he was captivated, 
and since that in his naked condition, and now was veil- 
armed, if they continued the pursuit he would spoil them all, 
for he surely was an enemy wizard, — and therefore th?v 
returned home. — Adair's Gtntral Obstrvatiuiis on Vie Anitri- 
can Jndifins, p. 394. 

it is surprising (says the same author) to see the long-con- 
tinued sjjced of the Indians. Though some of us have often 
run the swifrest of them out of sight for about the distance 
of twel\"e miles, yet afterwards, without any seeming toil, 
they would stretch on, leave us out of sight, and outwind 
any horse. — Jbiii. p. 318. 

if an Indian were driven out into the extensive woods, with 
only a knife and a tomahawk, or a snuiU hatchet, it is not to 
be doubted but he would fatten even where a wolf would 
starve. He would soon collect fire by rubbing two dry pieces 



412 NOTES. 

of wood together, make a bark hut, earthen vessels, and a 
bow and arrows ; then kill wild game, fish, fresh-water tor- 
toises, gather a plentiful variety of vegetables, and live in 
affluence. — Ibid. p. 410. 

Page 150, line 3. 
Mocasins are a sort of Indian buskins. 

Page 150, line 14. 

^^ Sleep, loenned one! and in the dreaming land 
Shouldst ihoti to-morrow loith thy mother meet, 

There is nothing (says Charlevoix) in which these barba- 
rians carry their superstitions farther than in what regards 
dreams; but they vary greatly in their manner of explaining 
themselves on this point. Sometimes it is the reasonable soul 
which ranges abroad, while the sensitive continues to ani- 
mate the body. Sometimes it is the familiar genius who 
gives salutary counsel with respect to what is going to hap- 
pen. Sometimes it is a visit made by the soul of tht object 
of which he dreams. But in whatever manner the dream is 
conceived, it is always looked upon as a thing sacred, and ;is 
the most ordinary way in which the gods make known their 
will to men. Filled with this idea, they cannot conceive how 
we should pay no regard to them. For the most part they 
look upon them either as a desire of the soul, inspii-ed by 
some genius, or an order from him, and in consequence of 
this principle they hold it a religious duty to obey them An 
Indian having dreamt of having a tinger cut off, had it really 
cut off as soon as he awoke, having first prepared himself for 
this important action by a feast. Another having dreamt of 
being a prisoner, and in the hands of his enemies, was much 
at a loss what to do. He consulted the jugglers, and by their 
idvice caused himself to be tied to a post, and burnt in sevei'al 
parts of the body. — Charlevoix, Journal of a Voyage to North 
America. 

Page 150, last line. 

From a flower shaped like a hoi-n, which Chateaubriand 
presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels 
through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than 
any other water. 

Page 151, line 11. 

The crocodile, the condor of the roch, 

The alligator, or American crocodile, when full grown (says 
Bertram,) is a very large and terrible creature, and of prodi 
gious strength, activity, and swiftness in the water. I have 



NOTES. 413 

seen tliera twenty feet in length, and some are supposed to be 
twenty-two or twenty-three feet in length. Their body is as 
Lir^e as that of a horse, their shape usually resembles tliat of 
a lizard, which is flat, or cuneiform, being compressed on 
each side, and gradually diminishing from the abdomen to 
tlie extremity, which, with the whole body, is covered with 
horny plates, or squamts, impenetrable when on the body of 
the Jive animal, even to a ritle ball, except about their head, 
and just behind their fore-legs or arms, where, it is said, tliey 
are only vulnerable. The head of a full-grown one is about 
three feet, and the mouth opens nearly the same length. 
Their eyes are small in proportion, and seem sunk in the 
head, by means of the prominency of the bi'ows; the nostrils 
are large, inflated, and prominent on the top, so tliat the head 
on the water resembles, at a distance, a great Ldumk of wood 
floating about: only the upper jaw moves, which they raise 
almost perpendicular, so as to fonn a right angle with the 
lower one. In the forepart of the upper jaw, on each side, 
just under the nostrils, are two very large, thick, strong teeth, 
or tusks, not very sharp, but rather the shape of a cone: 
these are as white as the finest polished ivory, and are not 
covered by any skin or lips, but always in sight, which gives 
tae creature a frightful appearance: in the lower jaw are 
holes opposite to these teeth to receive them; when they clap 
their jaws together, it causes a surprising noise, like that 
tvhich is made by forcing a heavy plank with violence upon 
<he ground, and may be heard at a great distance. But what 
£ yet more surprising to a stranger, is the incredibly loud 
^nd terrifying roar which they are capable of making, espe- 
iiially in breeding-time. It most resembles very heavy distant 
♦bunder, not only shaking the air and waters, but causing 
the earth to tremble; and when hundreds are roaring at the 
«ame time, you can scarcely be persuaded but that the whole 
flobe is violently and dangerously agitated. An old cham- 
■oion, who is, perhaps, absolute sovereign of a little lake or 
Aagoon, (when fifty less than himself are obliged to content 
themselves with swelling and roaring in little coves round 
ftbout,) darts forth from the reedy coverts, all at once, on the 
«urtace of the waters in a right line, at first seemingly as rapid 
us lightning, but gradually more slowly, until he arrives at 
the centre of the lake, where he stops. He now swells him- 
self by drawing in wind and water through his mouth, which 
causes a loud sonorous rattling in the throat for near a 
xiiinute; but it is immediately forced out again through his 
Boouth and nostrils with a loud noise, brandishing his tail in 
the air, and the vapour running from his nostrils like smoke. 
At other times, when swoln to an extent ready to burst, his 
head and tail lifted up, he spins or twirls round on the sur- 
face of the water. He acts his part like an Indian chief, 
•when rehearsing his feats of war. — Bertram's Travels in 
North America. 



414 NOTES. 

Page 151, line 13. 
Then forth uprose thai lone ivay farint) man; 

They discover an amazing sagacity, and acquire, with the 
greatest readiness, any thing that depends upon the attention 
of the mind. By experience, and iin acute observation, tliey 
attain many perfections to which the Amerians are strangers. 
Tor instance, they will cross a forest or a plain, which is two 
hundred miles in breadth, so as to reach with great exactness 
the point at which they intend to arrive, keeping, during the 
whole of that space, in a direct line, without any material 
deviations; and this they will do with the same ease, let the 
weather be fair or cloiuly. With equal acuteness they Avill 
point to that part of the heavens the sun is in, though it be 
intercepted by clouds or fogs. Besides this, they are able to 
pursue, with incredible facility, the traces of man or beast, 
either on leaves or grass; and on this account it is Avith great 
diffi-julty they escape discovery. They are indebted for these 
talents not only to nature, but to an extraordinary command 
of tne intellectual qualities, which can only be acquired by 
an unremitted attention, and by long experience. They are, 
in general, very happy in a retentive memory. T!ioy can 
recapitulate every particular that has been treated of in 
councils, and remember the exact time when they were held. 
Their belts of wampum preserve the substance of the treaties 
they have concluded with the neighbouring tribes ibr ages 
back, to which they will appeal and refer with as much per- 
spicuity and readiness as Europeans can to their writter 
records. 

The Indians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as 
all the other sciences, and yet they draw on their bircli-bark 
very exact charts or maps of the counti'ies they are acquaint- 
ed 'with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to 
make them tolerably complete. 

Their sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able 
to point out the polar star, by which they regulate their course 
when they travel in the night. 

They reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, 
but by a day's journey, which, according to the best calcula- 
tion I could'ma'ke, appears to be about twenty Phiglish miles. 
These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will 
demonstrate them in their maps with great exactness by the 
hieroglyphics just mentioned, when they regulate in council 
their war-parties, or their most distant Imnting excursions.- • 
Lewis and Clarke's Travels. 

Some of the French missionaries have supposed that the 
Indians are guided by instinct, and have pretended that 
Indian children can find their way through a forest as easily 
as a person of maturer years ; but this is a most absurd 



NOTES. 415 

notion. It 5s unqncstioRably by a close attention to tho 
growtli of the tree?, and position* of the sur, that they fiiid 
tlieir way. On the northern side of a tree there is generally 
the most moss: and the bark on that side, in general, diilurs 
from that on the opposite one. The branches toward tho 
south are, for tlie most part, more luxuriant than those on the 
other sides of trees, and several other distinctions also sub- 
sist between the northern and southeru sides, conspicuous to 
Indians, being taught from their infancy to attend to them 
which a conmion observer would, perhaps, never notice. 
Being accustomed from their infancy likewise to pay great 
attention to the position of the sun, they learu to make the 
most accurate allowance for its apparent motion from one 
part of the heavens to anotlier: and in every part of the day 
they will point to the part of the heavens whei'e it is, al- 
thougli the sky be obscured by clouds or mists. 

An instance of their dexterity in finding their way through 
an unknown country came under my observation v/iien I was 
at Staunton, situated behind the Blue Mountains, Virginia. 
A number of the Creek nation had arrived at that town on 
their way to rhiladelphia, whitlier they were going upon 
some atfairs of importance, and had stopped theie for the 
night. In the morning, some circumstance or other, which 
could not be learned, induced one half of the Inilians to set 
otf without their companions, Avho did not follow until some 
hours afterwards. When these last were ready to pursue 
tlieir journey, several of the towns-people mounted their 
horses to escort tliem part of the way. They proceeded 
along the high road for some miles, but, all at once, hastily 
Turning aside into the woods, thougli there was no path, the 
Indians advanced confidently forward. The people who 
accompanied them, surprised at this movement, informed 
thein that they were quitting the road to riiiladeli)hia, and 
expressed their fear least tliey should miss their companions 
who had gone on before. They answered that they knew 
better, that the way through the woods was the shortest to 
Philadelphia, and that they knew very well that their com 
panions had entered the wood at the very place Avhere they 
did. Curiosity led some of the horsemen to go on ; and to 
their astonislunent, for there was apparently no track, they 
overtook the other hulians in the thickest part of the wood. 
But what appeared most singular was, that the route which 
they took was found, on examining a map, to be as direct 
for Philadelphia as if they had taken the bearings by a mari- 
ner's compass. From others of their nation, who Inul been 
at IMiiladelphia at a former period, they had probably learned 
the exact direction of that city from their villages, and luul 
never lost sight of it, although they had already travelled 
three hundred miles through the woods, and had upwards of 
four hundred miles more to go before they could reach the 



416 NOTES. 

« 

place of their destination. Of the exactness Avith which thej 
can find out a strange place to wiiicli they have been once 
direi'ted by their own people, a striking example is furnished 
I think, by Mr. Jefferson, in his acount of the Indian graves 
in Virginia. These graA'es are nothing more than hu'ge 
mound.s of earth in the woods, whicli, on beiig opened, are 
found to contain skeletons in an erect ])osture: the Indian 
mode of sepulture has been too often described to remain im- 
known to you. But to come to my story. A party of Indians 
tliat were passing on to some of the seaports on the Atlantic, 
just as the Creeks above mentioned were going to riuladel- 
phia, were observed, all on a sudden, to quit the straight road 
by which they were proceeding, and without asking any 
questions to strike through tlie woods, in a direct line, to one 
of tliese graves, whicli lay at the distance of some miles from 
the road. Now very near a century must liave passed over 
since the part of Virginia in which tliis grave was situated 
had been inhabited by Indian^, and these Indian travellers, 
■who were to visit it by tliemselves, had unquestionably never 
been in that part of the country before: they must have 
found their way to it simply from the description of its situa- 
tion, that had been handed down to them by tradition, — 
Wtld's Travels in North America, vol. ii. 

Page 156, line 12. 

Their fathers' dust 

It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the toiubs of their 
ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been 
biuied for upwards of a century. 

Page 159, line 8. 

Or wild-cane arch highjlung o'ar gulf profound. 

The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish 
America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong 
to support the passengers, are yet waved in the agitation or 
the storm, and frequently add to the eflect of a mountaiuoua 
and picturesque scenery. 

Page 169, line 17. 
The Mammoth comes, 



That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude to 
the mammoth as an emblem of terror and destruction, will 
be seen by the autliority quoted below. Speaking of the 
mammoth or big buffalo, Mr. Jefferson states, that a tradition 
is preserved among the Indians of that animal still existing 
in the ncrthern parts of America. 



NOTES. 417 

"A delegation of warriors from the Delaware tribe having 
visited the governor of Virginia during the revolution, <m 
matters of business, the governor asked tliem some ques- 
tions relative to their country, and, among others, wiiat they 
knew or had heard of the animal whose boi>es w«re found at 
the Salt-licks, on the Ohio. Their chief speaker imMiediately 
put himself into an attitude of oratory, and with a pomp 
suited to what he conceived the elevation of his subject, in 
formed him that it was a tradition handed down from tlieir 
fathers, that in ancient times a h«rd of these tremendous 
animals came to the Big-bone-lieks, and began an um'versa! 
destiiiction of tl)e bear, deer, elk, buffalo, and other animals 
which had been created for the use of the Indians. That the 
Great Man above looking down and seeing this, was so en- 
raged, that he seized his lightning, descended on the eartli, 
seated himself on a neighbouring mountain, on a rock on 
which liis seat and the prints of his feet are still to be 
seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till the whole were 
slaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his fore- 
head to the shafts, shook tliem off as they fell, but missing 
one at length it wounded him in the side, whereon, springing 
round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, the 
Illinois, and finally over the great lakes, where he is living at 
this day." — Jefferson's Notes on Viryinieu 



Page 169, line 25. 

Scorning to vneM Vie hatchet for his hrihe^ 
* Gainst Brandt himself I loent to battle foiih' 

I took the character of Brandt, in the poem of Grertrude, 
from the common Histories of England, all of which repre- 
sented him as a bloody and bad man, (even among savages,) 
and chief agent in the hoirible desolation of Wyoming. Some 
years after this poem api>eared, the son of Brandt^ a most in- 
teresting and intelligent youth, came over to England, and I 
formed an acquaintance with him, on which I still look back 
with pleasure. He appealed to mv sense of honour and 
justice, on his own part and on that of his sister, to retract the 
unfair aspei*sions which, unconscious of their unfairness, I 
had cast on his father''s memory- 
He tlien refeiTed me to documents, N^iiich completelv satis- 
fied me that the common accounts of Brandt's cruelties at 
Wyoming, which I had found in books of Travels and in 
Adoli>ims's, and similar Histories of England, were gi'oss 
errors, and that in point of fact Brandt was not even present 
at that scene of desolation. 

It is, unhappily, to Britons and Anglo-Americans tluit w« 
must refer the chief blame in this horrible business. I pub- 
lished a letter expressing this behef in thf. New MontJily magor 

27 



418 NOTES. 



eine, in the year 1822, to which I mupt refer the reader — if he 
has any curiosity on the subject — for an antidote to my fan 
ciful description of Brandt. Among other expressions to 
voung Brandt, I made use of the following words: — "Had I 
leariit all this of xouy father v.hen I was writing my poem, 
he should not have figured in it as the hero-of mischief." It 
was but bare justice to say thus much of a i\Ioliawk Indian, 
who spoke English eloquently, and was thought capable of 
having written a history of the Six Nations. 1 ascertained, 
also, that he often strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian 
Ava:fare. The name of Brandt, therefore, remains in my 
Doem a pure and declared character of fiction. 



Page 170, line 7. 

To irlioni nor relaiive nor hlood remains, 

Ao ! — 7iut a kimlred droj) that runs in human veins ! 

Every one who recollects the specimen of Indian eloquence 
given in the speech of Logan, a ilingo chief, to the governor 
of Virginia, will perceive that I have attempted to paraphrase 
its concluding and most striking expression : — " There runs 
not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature." 
The similar salutation of the fictitious personage in my story, 
and the real Indian orator, makes it surely allowable to bor- 
row such an expression ; and if it appears, as it cannot but 
appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the 
reader to reflect how dithcult it is to transpose such exqui- 
sitely simple words, without sacrificing a portion of their 
effect. 

In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were com- 
mitted on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two 
Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighbouring whites, 
according to their custom, undertook to punish this outRige 
in a summary manr.cr. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for 
the many murders he iiad committed on those much injured 
people, collected a party and proceeded down the Kanaway 
in quest of vengeance; unfortunately, a canoe with women 
and children, with one man only, was seen coming from the 
opposite shore unanned, and unsuspecting an attack from 
the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on 
the bank of the river, and the moment the canoe reached the 
shore, singled out their objects, and at one fire killed every 

f)erson in it. This happened to be the family of Logan, who 
lad long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This 
unworthy return provoked his vengeance; he accordingly 
signalized himself in the war v.hich ensued. In the auttunn 
of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth 
of the great 'Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the 
Shawanees, Mingocs, and Delawares, were defeated by a 



KOTES. 419 

detachment of the Virginian militia. Tlie Indians sued for 
peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the 
suppliants; but lest the sincerity of a treaty sliould be dis- 
turbed, from which so distinguisjied a cliief abstracted him 
self, lie sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be 
delivered to Lord Dunmore: — 

''I a|)peal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's 
cabin hungry, and lie gave him not to eat; if ever he caine 
cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course 
of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his 
cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the 
whites, that my cour.trymen pointed as they passed, and 
said, Logan is the Iriend of the white men. 1 have even 
thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one 
man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, mur- 
dered all the relations of Logan, even my women and child- 
ren. 

" There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any 
living creature : — this called on me for revenge. 1 have fought 
for it. 1 have killed many. I have fully glutted my ven- 
geance. For my country 1 rcjtMce at the beams of peace; — 
but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. 
Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save 
his life. Who is there. to mourn for Logan V not one!" — 
Jtfftrson's Notts on Viryinia. 



MISCELLAITEOUS POEIVIS. 

rage 194, line 4. 

The dark-attivtd CuUee, 

The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and 
apparently lier oidy clergy from the sixth to the eleventh 
century. They were of Irish origin, and their monastery oa 
the Island of lona, or Icolmkili, uas the seminary of Chris- 
tianity in North Britain. l.'resbyterian writers have wished 
to i)rove them to have been a sort of I'resbyters, strangers to 
the Uoman Church and Kf)isco])acy. It seems to be esta- 
blished that they were not enemies to Kpisco[)acy; — but that 
they were not slavishly subjected to Kome, like the clergy 
of later periods, ai)pears by their resisting the Papal ordi- 
nances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which 
account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish so»'e 
reigns to make way for more Popish canons. 



420 NOTES. 

Pao-e 197, line 15. 

And the shield of , alarm icns dumb, 

Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to 
vrar among the Gaiil. 

Page 204. 

The tradition -which forms the substance of these stanzas 
IB still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height 
cal!e<l the Kolan<lseck, a few miles above Boim on the Kliino 
is shown as the habitation which Koland built in sight of a 
ininnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having 
heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be 
thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be 
recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the- 
romantic landscape of the Drachenfels, the Kolandseck, anc^ 
the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnen 
still stands. 

Page 212, hne 14. 

That erst the adcenVrous Norman uvre, 

A Norman leader, in the service of the King of Scotland, 
married the heiress of Lochow, in the twelfth century, and 
from him the Ctmipbells are sprung. 

Page 247, line 11. 

WItose Unenr/e, in a raptured hour, 

Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin 
of i»ainting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female 
tracing the shadow of her lover's prolile on the wall as he lay 
asleep. 

Page 2G0, line 18. 

Where the Xvrman tTicanij/d hbn of oil, 

What is called the East HiH, at Hastings, is crowned with 
the works of an ancient canij); and it is more tiian probable 
it was the spot which William I. occupied between his land- 
ing and the battle which gave him Kngland's crown. It is u 
strung position; the works are easily traced. 

Page 264, line 29. 

France turns from htr aOandon\l friends afresh. 

The fact ouglit to be universally known, that France is at 
this mouicnt indebted to Poland for not being invaded by 
Russia. When the Gmnd D'lke Constantine tii-d from War- 
saw, he left papers behind him proving that the liussians. 



NOTES. 421 

after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched to- 
wards Paris, if the Poli&h insurrection liad not prevented 
them. 

Page 276, line 8. 

TheCy NhmdewUz, 

This venerable man, the most popular and influential of 
Polish poets, and president of the academy in Warsaw, was 
in London when this poem was written: he was then seventy- 
four years old ; but his noble spirit is rather mellowed than 
decayed by age. He was tiie friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and 
Washington. Rich in anecdote like Franklin, he lias also a 
striking resemblance to him in countenance. 

Page 277, line 14. 
Nor church-bell 



In Catholic countries 3'ou often hear the church-bells rting 
to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms. 

Page 291, line 14. 

Regret iJie lark Uiat gladdens England's morn, 

llr. p. Cunningham, in his interesting work on New Sonth 
Wales, gives the following account of its song-birds : — " We 
are not moved here with the deep mellow note of the hhick- 
bird, poured out from beneath some low stunted bush, nor 
thrilled with the wild warblings of the thrush ])erclied on the top 
of some tall sapling, nor charmed with the blithe carol of the 
lark as we proceed early a-field; none of our birds rivalling 
those divine songsters in realizing the poetical idea of ' the 
music of the grovt:^ while *" parrots' chntttring'' must sup|)ly 
the place of ' nightingales' singing' in the future amorous 
lays of our sighing Celadons. We have our lark, certainly ; 
but both his ap])earance and note are a most wretclied parody 
upon the bird about which our Knglish I'oets have made so 
muiy fine similes. He will mount from the grounil and rise, 
fluttering upwards in the same maimer, and with a few of 
the starting notes of the Kngliish lark; but, on reaching the 
\iei<!;ht of thirty feet or so, down he drops suddenly and 
mutely, diving into conceahnent among the long grass, as it 
ashamed of Ins pitiful attempt. For tlie pert frisky robin, 
pecking and pattering against the windows in the dull diivs 
of winter, we have the lively 'superb warbler,' with his blue 
shining plinnage and his long tapering tail, picking up the 
crumbs at our doors; v liilc the pretty reil-bills, of the size 
ai. I form of the goldlinch, constitute the sj)arrow of our clime, 
flyiug in Hocks about our houses, aud building their soft 



422 NOTES. 

downy pigmy nests in the orange, peach, and lenion-trees 
Eur rounding them." — Cunningham's Two Years in New Hoaih 
Walts, vol. ii. p. 216. 

Page 304, line 6. 

Oh, feeble statesmen — ir/nominious times. 

There is not upon record a more disgusting scono ol 
Russian hypocrisy, and (woe tliat it must be written I) ot 
British humihation, than that which passed on board the 
Talavera, when Britisli sailors accepted money IVom tlie 
Emperor Nicholas, and gave him cheers. It will require the 
Talavera to fight well with the first Russian ship that she 
may have to encounter, to make us forget that day. 

Page 316, line 23. 

A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran, 

In the year 1790, Oran, the most Avestern city in the Al- 
gerine Regency, which had been possessed by Spain for more 
than a hundred years, and fortified at an immense expense, 
wv destroyed by an earthquake; six thousand of its inhabit- 
ants were buried under the ruiiis. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Page 326, line 6. 
The vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs o''erhung, 

TiTE valley of Glencoe, unparalleled in its sccnerv foi 
gloomy grandeur, is to this day frequented by eagles. VVhen 
I visited the spot within a y«ar ago, I saw several perch at a 
distance. Only one of them came so near me tliat 1 did not 
wish iiim any nearer. He favoured me with a fuH and con- 
tinued view of his noble person, and with the exception of 
the African eagle which I saw wheeling and hovering over a 
corps of the French army tliat were marching from Oran, 
and who seemed to linger over them with delight at the 
sound of their trumpets, as if they were about to restore his 
image to the Gallic standard — I never saw a prouder bird than 
this black eagle of Glencoe. 

I was unable, from a hurt in my foot, to leave the carriage; 
but the guide informed me that, if I could go nearer the sides 
of the glen, I should see the traces of houses and gardens 
once belonging to the unfortunate inhabitants. A? it was, J 



NOTES. 423 

never s:iw a spot whore I couM le-s stipf.ose human hehigs to 
h ive ever dwelt. I asked tlie guide how these eagles sub 
fiistcd; he replied, "on the lambs and the lawns of Lord 
Breadalbane." — "Lambs and fawns!" I said; "and how 
do Shty subsist, for I cannot see verdure enough to graze a 
rabbit"? I suspect," I added, "that these birds make the 
dirts only their country-houses, and that they go down to the 
Lowlands to find their provender." — " Ay, ay," replied the 
Highlander, " it is very possible, for the eagle can gang fai 
for tiis breakfast." 

Page 332, line 21. 
Witch-legends Ronald scorn' d — ghosts kelpie, wraith, 

" The most dangerous and malignant creature of Highland 
superstition was the kelpie, or water-horse, which was sup- 
posed to allure women and children to his subacjueous haunts, 
and there devour them ; sometimes he would swell the lake 
or torrent beyond its usual limits, and overwhelm the un- 
guarded traveller in the flood. The sheplienl, as he sat on 
the brow of a rock on a summer's evening, often fancied he 
saw this animal dashing along the sm-face of the lake, or 
browsing on the pasture-ground upon its verge." — Brawn's 
Uistory i>f the UujhlaiKl Clans, vol. i. 106. 

Li Scotland, according to Dr. John Brown, it is yet a super- 
stitious principle that the wraith, i\\Q omen or messenger of 
death, appears in the resemblance of one in danger, immedi- 
ately preceding dissolution. This ominous form, purely of a 
spiritual nature, seems to testify that the exaction (extinc- 
tion) of life approaches. It was wont to be exhibited, also, 
as " a little i-uiujh dug,'' when it could be pacified by the 
death of any other being " if crossed, and conjured iu time." — 
Brown's Superstitions of the J/ifjldands, p. 182. 

It happened to me, early in life, to meet with an amusing 
instance of Highland superstition with regard to myself. 1 
lived in a family of the Island of Mull, and a mile or two 
from their liouse there was a burial-ground without any 
church attached to it, on the lonely moor. The cemetery 
was enclosed and guarded by an iron railing, so high, that it 
was thought to be unscaleable. I was, however, commenc- 
ing the stJudy of botany at the time, and thmking there might 
be some nice flowers and curious ei)itaphs among the grave- 
stones, I contrived, by help of my handkerchief, to scale the 
railing, and was soon scampering over the tombs; some of 
the natives chanced to perceive me, not in the act of climb 
ing over to — but skip|)ing over, the burial-ground. In a day 
or two I observed the family looking on me with unaccount- 
able, though not angry seriousness: at last the good old 
grandmother told me, with tears in her eyes, " that I could 
not live long, for that my wraith had been seen." — "And, 



424 NOTES. 

pray, wheit?" — "Leaping over the stones of the buriati- 
ground." The old lady Avas much relieved to h€ar that it 
was not my wraith, but myself. 

Akin to other Hicrhland' supei'stitions, but differing from 
them in many essential respects, is tlie belief — for supersti- 
tion it cannot -well be called (quoth the Avise author 1 am 
quoting) — in the second-sight, by which, as Dr. Johnson 
observes, " seems to be meant a mode of seeing superadded 
to that which Nature generally bestows; and consists of an 
impression made either by the mind upon the eye — or by the 
eye tipon the mind, by which things distant or future are 
perceived and seen, as if the}' were present. This deceptive 
laculty is called Traioshe in the Gaelic, which signifies a 
spectre or vision, and is neither vokmtary nor constant: but 
consists in seeing an otherwise invisible object, without any 
pievious means used by the person that sees it for that end. 
The vision makes such a lively impression u(>on the seers, 
that they neither see nor think of any thing else except the 
vision, as long as it continues; and then they appear pensive 
or jovial, according to the object which was represented to 
them." 

There are now few persons, if any (continues Dr. Brown,) 
■who pretend to this faculty, and the belief in it is almost 
generally exploded. Yet it cannot be denied that apparent 
proofs of its existence have been adduced, which have stag- 
gered minds not prone to superstition. When the connection 
between cause and elfect can be recognized, things Avhich 
would otherwise have appeared wonderful, and almost in- 
credible, are viewed as ordinary occurrences. The im[)ossi- 
bility of accounting for such an extraordinary phenomenon 
as the alleged faculty on philosophical princij)les, or from the 
laws of nature, must ever leave the matter sus])ended between 
rational doubt antl confirmed sce])ticism. " Strong reasons 
for incredulity," says Dr. Johnson, " will readily occur." 
This faculty of seeing things out of sight is local, and ccm- 
moidy useless. It is a breach of the common order of things, 
without any visible reason or perceptible benefit. It is as- 
cribed only t) a people very little enlighteneil, and among 
them, for the most part, to the mean and ignorant. 

In tlie whole history of Ilighiand superstitions, there is no* 
a more curious fact than that Dr. James liiown, a gentleman 
of the Edinburgh bar, in the nineteenth centin-y, should shovv 
himself a more abject believer in the truth of second-sight 
than Dr. Samuel Johnson, of London, in the eighteenth 
century. 

Page 334, line 12. 

Tlie pit or fjalhu's would have cured my grief. 

Until the year 1747, the Highland Lairds had the right of 
punishing serfs even capitally, in so far as they ofteu banged, 



NOTES. 425 

or imprisoned them in a pit or dunjreon, Avlicrc rhey were 
starved to death. But the law of 174G, for disarming tlie 
Higlilander.s and restraining tlie use of the liiglilaiid garb- 
was followed up the following year by one of a more radical 
and permanent description. Tliis was the act for abulidiing 
the heritable jurisdictions, which, though necessary in a 
rude state of society, were wholly incompatible with an 
advanced state of civiiizuton. By depriving the Highland 
chiefs of their judicial powers, it was thought that the sway 
vuich, for centuries, they had held over tlie'.r people, would 
be gi'adually impaired: and that hy investing certain judges, 
who were amenable to the legislature for the proper discharge 
of their duties, with the civil and crimimd jurisdiction enjoy 
ed by the proprietors of the soil, the causeof good government 
would be promoted, and the I'acilities for repressing any 
attempts to disturb the public tranquillity increased. 

By this act (20 George II., c. 43,) which was made to the 
whole of Scotland, all heritable jurisdictions of justiciary, 
all regalities and heritable bailieries, and constabularies 
(excepting the ollice of high constable,) and all stewartries 
and sheritfships of smaller districts, which were only parts of 
counties, were dissolved, and the powers formerly vested in 
them were ordained to be exercised by such of the kmg's 
courts as these powers would have belonged to, if the juris- 
dictions had never been granted. All sheriffships and stew- 
artries not dissolved by the statute, namely, those which 
comprehended whole counties, where they had been granted 
cither heritably or for life, were resumed and annexed to the 
crown. With the excej)tion of the hereditary justiciaryship 
of Scotland, which was transferred from the family of Argyle 
to the Higli Court of Justiciary, the other jurisilictions were 
ordained to be vested in sheritfs-depute or stewarts-dejjute, to 
be ap])ointedby the king in every shire or stewartry not dis- 
solved by the act. As by the twentieth of Union, all herit- 
able offices and jurisdictions were reserved to the grantees as 
rights of property; compensation was ordained to be made to 
the holders, the amount of which was af.erwards fi.Ked by 
parliament, in terms of the act of Sederunt of the Court of 
Session, at oue haudi.'ed and fifty thousands pounds. 



Page 334, line 14. 

I mnrcli'd — tchen,fti</ninf/ royalty's command^ 
Af/(tinst the tlan Miif/ondU, Hldir's lord 
IStiiiJ jith cxti^rminatiny Jirt and sward; 

I cannot agree with Brown, the author of an able work, 
" The History of the Highlaiul Clans," that the affair of Clen- 
coe has stamped indelible infamy ou the goverunicnr of King 
William 111., if by this expresbiou it be meant that William's 



426 NOTES. 

own memory is disgraced by that massacre. I sec no proof 
that William gave more than general orders to subdue the 
remaining maleL-onrents ol" the ilacdonald clan; and these 
ordeis, the nearer we trace them to the government, are the 
more express in enj. an. ng, that all those who would promise 
to swear allegiance sliouM be spared. As tliese orders came 
do-wu Irora the general government to individuals, they be- 
i;anie more and more severe, and at last merciless, so that 
they ultimately ceased to be the real orders of government. 
Among these Valse agents ot gnvernment, who appear with 
most disgrace, is the " jNIaster of Stair," who appears in the 
business more like a fiend than a man. When issuir.g his 
orders for the attack on the renuiinder of the ]\Iacdonalds in 
Glenr.(>c, he expressed a hojie in his letter " that the soldiers 
would trouble the government with no prisoners." 

It cannot be supposed that I would for a moment palliate 
this atrocious event by quotin.g the provocations not very- 
long before otfered by the Macdonalds in massacres of the 
Campbells. But they may be alluded to as causes, though 
not excuses. It is a part of the melancholy instruction 
which history affur Is us, that in the moral as well as in the 
physical world there is always a reaction eqinil to the 
action. — The banishment of the Moors from Spain to Africa 
was the chief cause of African piracy and Christian slavery 
among the Moors for centuries; and since the reign of 
VVilliam 111. the Irish Orangemen have been the Algerhies of 
Ii-yland. 

The afTi\ir of Glencoe was in fiict only a lingering trait cf 
horribly barbarous times, though it was the more shocking 
that it came from that side of the political world which pro- 
fessed to be the more liberal side, and it occurred at a late 
time of the day, when the minds of both parties had become 
comparatively civilized, the whigs by the triumph of free 
princijjles, and the tories by pei'sonal experience of the evds 
attending persecution. Yet that barbarism still subsisted in 
too many minds professing to act on liberal principles, is but 
too apparent from this disgusting tragedy. 

I once flattered myself' that the Argyle Campbells, from 
whom I am sprung, had no share in this massacre, and a 
direct share they certainly had not. But on inquiry I find 
that they consented to shutting up the passes of Glencoe 
through which the Macdonalds might escape; and perhaps 
relations of my great-grandfather — I am afraid to count their 
distance or proximity — might be indirectly concerned in the 
cruelty. 

But children are not answerable for the crimes of their fore- 
fathers; an 1 I hope and trust that the descendants of Bread- 
nlbane and Glenlyou are as much and justly at their ease oa 
this subject jis 1 am. 



NOTES. 427 

Page 343, line 7. 
Oiance snatch'' d themj'roinproscnpiion and despair. 

JIany Highland fiimilies, at the outbreak of the rebellion in 
1745, were saved from utter desolation by the contrivances of 
some of their more sensible members, princii)aliy the women, 
who foresaw the consequences of the insurrection. When I 
was a youth in tlie Higlilands, 1 remember an old gentlemark 
being pointed out to nie, who, finding all other arguments 
fail, had, in conjunction with his mother and sisters, bound 
the old laird hand and foot, and locked him up in his own 
cellar, until the news of the battle of Culloden had arrived. 

A device pleasanter to the reader of the anecdote, though 
not to the sufierer, was practised by a shrewd Highland dame, 
whose husband was Chai"les Stuart-mad, and was determiiied 
to join the insurgents. He told his wife at night that he 
should start early to-morrow morning on horseback. " Well, 
but you will allow me to make your breakfast before }'ou 
goV" — " Oh yes." She accordingly prepared it, and, bring- 
in a full boiling kettle, poured it, by iuteutional accident, on 
his less ! 



THE END. 






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